Now Or Never
by LyingMonsters
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is a regular British soldier hoping his term occupying West Berlin will start and end without incident so he can keep the military job he desperately needs. That's when Alfred F. Jones, a brash, wild American, walks into his life, and who might end up being the answer to all his questions. Inspired by the Elvis Presley song of the same name. 1961 Berlin AU.
1. Chapter 1

**It's now or never, come hold me tight**

 **Kiss me my darling, be mine tonight**  
 **Tomorrow will be too late**

 **-Now Or Never**

 **0o0o0o**

 _September 1961, West Berlin_

Arthur had a pounding headache from the new American forces that had arrived earlier. They were loud and arrogant and they had already driven him out of his favourite bar to this smaller but marginally quieter one within a few weeks of their arrival. Scowling into his drink, Arthur drained the glass. He'd even tolerate the frogs over the Americans because at least _they_ didn't act like everyone should kiss their shined boots because they were the _heroes_. He just wanted a calm term in Berlin and be able to go home intact, but of course, the bloody Yanks flew in and did what they did best-turning the world upside down.

Drinking to get rid of the headache might not have been Arthur's smartest idea twenty minutes ago, but if he was about to be defeated by his own weak constitution, he may as well have not come.

'Another,' he told the bartender, who he thought might have given him a very funny look as he did so.

'You sure about that?' someone across the table asked. Arthur couldn't tell if he'd been there this whole time, but he wasn't about to let somebody with an _American_ accent tell him what was or wasn't safe. He knew his limits! He was fine, and he told the nosy man exactly so right before slamming back half the glass.

'Jesus _Christ_ ,' he coughed after his eyes had stopped watering. His throat was on fire. 'What the _hell_ was in that thing?'

'You got mine, I think.' The American swirled the remains and laughed. 'Yep! Straight bourbon.'

'It's terrible,' Arthur said. 'Give it back.'

The man raised an eyebrow. Arthur grabbed for it and only missed the mark once. He took another gulp and managed not to cough.

'You don't look great,' the American told him. Arthur waved him off. Once you got past the burn, the taste wasn't entirely horrible. He took a smaller sip and decided it might even be tolerable. It felt like fire in his stomach, too, hot and prideful and as liquid as courage could get, and if the Americans drank this, he could almost understand why they acted how they did. Arthur leaned back in his chair and tried for confidence.

'Bourbon, you said?'

'Yeah. This pretty high gravity to you?'

'Gravity?'

'Strong. Pretty strong?' He poured his own glass and drank it without flinching. Show-off. 'What's your normal?'

'Tennents.'

'The ones with the pinup girls on the can?' his American asked after a short pause. He sounded almost unhappy, no longer so teasing, and Arthur didn't know why that made him feel all hot and prickly inside.

'Well, not those!' Arthur took another gulp and tried to steady his racing heartbeat, which didn't work. 'I don't get it for that. I get it to drink. There's probably better ways to do those things than buying cans of beer.'

'Better ways,' he repeated.

Arthur decided it would be good to leave before this conversation was pursued further and he revealed things he'd rather not ever be mentioned again, because the American would probably spread rumours and then he'd be out of this military job he desperately needed.

'Yes. Well, unless you have some urgent business with me you've failed to inform me about, I'll be going.' He coughed and tried to stand up, but the floor swayed and he decided to stay put for a second.

'We've never been introduced, have we?' the man asked.

'No,' Arthur said, hoping he'd get the hint. Unfortunately, his American didn't seem to know what subtlety was. Not that any of them did, but this one was especially stubborn and brash and loud and generally too _American_.

'Officer Alfred F. Jones, American flying ace here to save the world. At your service, Mr…?'

'Right, then, Alfred, your friends have already driven me out of my favourite bar, kindly leave me to enjoy this one. In peace.' He slid the bourbon across to Alfred and tried to stand up. The world tipped aggressively and he grabbed the back of his chair to stop from falling. Alfred's eyes were the only non-spinning thing in the room, and it wasn't his fault he focused on them-they were sky blue, like he'd flown his plane too much and gotten the sunlight and atmosphere stuck in his skin and hair and eyes.

'And you are?' Alfred hinted again, pouring two glasses, and since it really would have been a shame to let it go to waste, Arthur sat back down and took the glass. He caught a flicker of a smile from Alfred, a different smile, unabashedly happy, which made his head spin. Why was he even still drinking? Why was he drinking with Alfred, of all people? Alfred should know he wasn't everything, and that there was definitely better options if he would just go home even if he didn't know who they were right now.

'You're drinking with me because-well, you said it yourself! I'm the all-American pilot, and you can't resist my charm. I don't blame you, I _am_ the hero.' He brought out that stupidly winning smile again. 'Or because you don't look like you can stand up.'

Arthur reminded himself that Alfred was one of the self-professed _heroes_ and more particularly a boasting, rowdy _pilot_ , for the love of God. He was definitely too drunk to be thinking clearly, and that he should probably just leave and go back to camp to sleep and never think of this persistent American soldier ever again, but he didn't think he could leave his thoughts of Alfred entirely in this place if he wanted.

'Come on, what's your name?'

'Arthur Kirkland, I suppose. Pleasure.' He tipped back his glass and scowled. It was already empty. Alfred made a sound that Arthur hoped wasn't a laugh and refilled. 'What does the F stand for?' he asked, determinedly not looking at Alfred, who was definitely smiling now, if not laughing, and bent closer than Arthur had thought he was. _Damn_ that smile, and damn his bright blue eyes, and while he was at it, damn his whole stupid _pilot_ thing. He was stupid, all of this was completely stupid, but Arthur found himself pausing for Alfred's answer.

'Would you believe me if I said it stood for Freedom?'

Arthur snorted and sat back, the odd allure broken and reprimanding himself for feeling it. 'No.'

'Then I'll have to tell you that it's actually for Foster. Don't tell my friends that, though, they're still calling me Alfred _Fucking_ Jones.' He leaned further forward and Arthur almost slopped his drink down his front. 'Don't tell anyone, right?'

'Right. Fine.' Arthur turned away and took another sip to steady his nerves. Alfred was eyeing him, and if he'd just stop _smiling_ , Arthur could maybe think of anything at all.

'Come on, aren't you happy to see me? I'm the hero who's taking this place out of the dumps and putting it back on the streets!' Alfred nudged his arm and Arthur tried to not inhale his bourbon.

'Do you do this to everyone you meet?' Arthur asked, wiping off his mouth. Alfred raised an eyebrow. 'This whole-this whole _hero_ routine. Doesn't it get old?'

'Of course I do it, what else would I do?' Alfred grinned. 'Well, not for everyone. Just those I feel like getting to know better. You can't say my charm isn't working at least a little bit. See, you're smiling!'

'I am not,' Arthur said, hurriedly schooling his face back into neutrality.

'You should. You look good when you smile.' He fell silent, eyeing Arthur over the rim of his glass, the lamplight playing off his own smile. 'You look good any time, really.'

Arthur took a drink and didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.

'I have a deal for you,' Alfred said suddenly, holding out a hand. Arthur stared at it incredulously. 'Come on, unless you're a Russian spy, I don't bite.'

'I'm not.' Arthur shook his hand. His American squeezed gently before letting go.

'I'm not Soviet, either.'

'If you were, I'd wonder how the Russians got someone as American as you,' Arthur said, and was rewarded with a surprised flash of white teeth. 'Don't smile at me like that, it wasn't supposed to be a compliment. You bloody Yanks are always so... _American_.' The drinking was definitely affecting him now. 'Give me another.'

'That's like saying you're really British,' Alfred noted with a grin, refilling his glass.

'I'm English, and that's not an insult,' Arthur said loftily. Really, the bourbon wasn't bad at all.

'English, then. Either way, you're a soldier of the refined gentleman sort, and that's exactly the type for an American from New York.'

'Type?'

'For a partner.' Alfred's eyes caught his for a second, surprisingly intense. He had a cowlick, which was a strange thing to notice in the midst of this smoky bar conversation, but he did.

Arthur looked away first and heard Alfred cough and sit back. His pulse pounded in his ears.

'For the plan,' Alfred clarified lowly.

'Oh.' Arthur knew that sounded stupid and a little bit pathetic, but he'd _thought_ -

'About the plan-'

'Right. The plan. What is your plan?' He raised his glass, prepared for something like vandalizing an officer's quarters and already prepared to say he had urgent business elsewhere.

'I need to get into the East,' Alfred said. 'Incognito, you understand?'

Arthur choked on his mouthful of bourbon and collapsed forward onto the table, wheezing for air. Alfred jumped up and thumped him on the back.

'Careful, there, Artie.'

'Don't call me Artie,' Arthur groaned into the table. It was cool, or his face was burning up, and he felt like going to sleep right here. 'Forget it, Alfred. I'm not helping you start a war on whichever officer's orders you follow.'

'Actually, I'm the officer.' Alfred tapped his insignia with a proud smile. 'One of the youngest ever. This isn't on orders. I just want to see the Brandenburg Gate.'

'You're going to start another war over seeing the _Brandenburg Gate_ ,' Arthur said. 'Why can't you just look at it from this side?'

'That's not the real experience, and besides-well, that's not important. I won't start anything! I'll be careful.'

'Like you even know what the word means.' Arthur groped for his glass and couldn't find it. 'Where's my bourbon?'

'I'm not giving it back until you agree to help me out. Word says you Brits don't have curfew, so you can do it.'

'That's ridiculous,' Arthur said, trying to grab for his glass. Alfred held it up over his head. 'You're ridiculous. Bloody pilots, never should trust a single one of you, my da said so…wanted to get into the RAF myself, didn't make it.'

'Help me get into the East and you'll never hear from me again,' Alfred said. Arthur made another lunge for it and finally slumped across the table.

'Who even says I don't want to see you?' he slurred. 'Alfred F. Jones. You've got a _stupid_ name, you know, too American. American pilot. You're hell. Give me back my bourbon.'

'I fly a bomber, if you want to know. See the jacket?'

'Stupid jacket. I want it,' Arthur told him, the world spinning.

Alfred chuckled, and Arthur's glass was pushed back into his hands.

'Take it. But if you want another…'

'I have to get you to _Brandenburg_ ,' Arthur complained, nearly knocking the bottle over. 'You're going to start a war, Alfred. You know there's thirty thousand Stasi spies behind the Wall, all looking for someone idiotic enough to decide that their military term is a great time for _sightseeing_.'

'There's no way there's _that_ many, and besides, they'll never catch me. You'll keep me safe, right? And I'll keep you safe.'

'I'm not going, I told you.'

Alfred raised an eyebrow, filled another drink, and slid it across to Arthur.

'Will this convince you?'

'No,' Arthur mumbled firmly, trying to focus on Alfred before giving up, and drank it. 'You're not very good at following through on your promises, I already got two glasses out of you. Why the hell you wanna see the Gate, anyways? Bloody pretty building but not worth a war, God. Why cant'cha go on your own?'

'Well, because Alfred F. Jones is no longer welcome in East Berlin.' Alfred looked appropriately abashed, his ears pink.

'What did'ja do?' Arthur fairly shouted, waving a hand at him that ended up on his shoulder. 'How did you get the entire government mad at you in-how long you been here, two days?'

'A month or so.' Alfred didn't move his hand off his shoulder, which Arthur was thankful for since he probably would have collapsed forward without his steady warm weight. 'I got into a small disagreement with a colonel over there about a week ago, and they told me never to show my face there again.'

' _How_ ,' Arthur asked, wrapping his hands around the bottle and feeling the familiar fire in his throat, straining to keep his eyes focused-nothing really mattered except Alfred right now, strangely. '-have you not gotten yourself killed yet? No, shut up, I'm taking you over, bloody miracle you survived this long without someone like me to make sure you don't make stupid decisions.' He drained the glass and pulled on Alfred's arm, but he wouldn't move. Must be muscular.

'Really, man?' Alfred looked surprised as Arthur flung his wallet in the table, hauled him up and dragged him into the thankfully cooler air outside. 'Wait-hold on, I said-I think I got you way too blitzed, we can go tomorrow-oh, shit, sorry, Artie.'

'Don' call me that,' Arthur mumbled, dragging him further along the road. 'Where's the Gate?'

'Arthur, are you sure you're thinking straight? The Wall is back there.'

'You're the one who isn't,' Arthur shot back, right before tripping on a streetlight. 'Who put that there?'

Alfred swore, picking him up off the sidewalk with surprising ease.

'Oh, goddamn, that looked painful-how many fingers am I holding up, Artie-Arthur, I mean? Talk to me, man!'

'Eight,' Arthur tried, squinting into the moonlight. The multicoloured light pouring from the bars and streetlights and playing on his skin and hair made Alfred look unearthly, like a small series of miracles that hadn't gotten himself killed long enough to show up for Arthur like this.

'You're seeing double, let's get you home.'

'No!' Arthur struggled and ended up on a bench. He looked around in bemusement about how he'd gotten there. 'You wanted to get into the East.'

Alfred was sitting next to him, trying to look concerned. He was smiling and Arthur was fascinated by the little ways he couldn't hide happiness.

'Okay, we can't just go walking in. I have a car someone lent me, it has all the new plates and everything, but you're too drunk to drive me in.'

''M not too drunk,' Arthur said. 'Barely even dizzy-Alfred, _that tree is going to fall on me_.'

'You are way too dizzy.' Alfred gently pried Arthur's hands off his uniform. 'The tree is fine. You're the one who isn't. Can you even walk?'

''Course I can,' Arthur declared. Alfred caught him before he hit the pavement.

'Tomorrow.' Alfred picked him up, and Arthur hazily looked up at him. His eyes stayed blue in the thousand colours of night life, glancing down at him with a light like fondness.

''M cold,' Arthur mumbled, leaning against his chest. Alfred laughed quietly and pulled off his jacket to wrap Arthur in.

Alfred found the British quarters after a long time wandering. The good thing was that nobody saw them stumble in drunk and bleary, and the bad thing was that Alfred was shivering from so long in the cold.

'I gave you exact directions,' Arthur told him as Alfred carried him up the stairs of the apartments, slumping over his pillow as Alfred pulled off his boots. Everything was warm and silent and Alfred's hands were steady and smelled like sweets. 'You're lucky you have me to stop you from making stupid decisions, really, did you honestly think the British sector was down that Ku'damm street thing?'

'Okay, Artie.' Alfred arranged him in bed, hands lingering at his collar buttons before hastily pulling away. 'You can stay in your uniform for tonight, right? It shouldn't be too bad.'

'Mmm.' Arthur pulled the pillows into his face. 'You stayin'?'

'Naw, I gotta go home.'

'Stay,' Arthur insisted, catching his hand. 'Please.' He wanted Alfred here, wanted to keep his thousand colours and those sky blue eyes. Alfred hesitated, eyes searching his face, before gently stepping back.

'Can't. I wish I could, though, darlin', I really do. I'll take you up on that offer another day.'

Arthur nodded, too exhausted and exhilarated to do anything, the word _darlin_ ' settling into his soaring heart.

'G'night, Alfred,' he mumbled sleepily.

'Goodnight, Artie.' He felt more than saw Alfred lean down and kiss his forehead, breath quiet and hands brushing his sweaty bangs out of his face before he left.

 **0o0o0o**

 **Eureka: a cry of joy or satisfaction when one finds or discovers something.**

 **This is set in the same verse as Don't Ask Me Why, but is able to be read alone.**

 _ **:: Old, towering brick buildings**_


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur's mouth was dry and tasted terrible when he woke up, and his head was liable to split open.

'I'm never drinking again,' he swore, burying his face deeper into his pillow to shut out the light drilling into his head. The fabric smelled strange, a mixture of what he thought might be sunlight and...chocolate.

Some blurry recollection from his dream of arms wrapped around him and skin that smelled like sugar tumbled through his mind, and Arthur groaned in despair and pressed his burning face even further into the pillow. It tickled his nose, and he sat up in irritation to uncrumple the pillowcase and promptly realized his pillow was in fact a leather jacket with wool around the collar. It was definitely not his, since it was American.

Arthur warily looked around, but his apartment room was empty and devoid of any explanation as to why he was wearing an American's jacket. He felt around in the pockets for a clue and pulled out his mostly empty wallet. There was a note inside.

 _Hey Artie!_

 _You probably won't remember, but I carried you home after you got really drunk. Don't worry, I saved your wallet, see! As to why it's empty, well, the bill tab was pretty big. You drank a lot_.

 _You promised to get me into the East tomorrow (I guess it'll be today when you read this) and it's perfectly safe so don't worry, everything will be fine and I, your hero, will protect you. Meet me at the Cuckoo's Egg bar at eight PM. Wear your uniform._

 _It's the time to live, Arthur, now or never_.

 _Yours always,_

 _Alfred F. Jones (American hero)_

 _P.S. Bring my jacket when you come_.

Arthur groaned and buried his face in his hands. This was even worse than he'd ever imagined. He'd gotten drunk and done who knows what with an American and now he was wearing his jacket. Had he revealed his _inclinations_? How had he agreed to such an utterly dangerous, inane plan? He reread the letter, lingering on the name at the bottom that made his heart squeeze. Alfred F. Jones. You didn't get a more American name than that.

Shaking his head in frustration, Arthur got out of bed, stiff joints complaining, immeasurably grateful that he was still in the familiar uniform he was wearing when he remembered setting out in last night. That was the only good thing to have come out of the whole ordeal.

He stumbled to the bathroom and looked at himself. His hair was sticking up and his eyes were bloodshot, and his uniform cut a conflicting picture with Alfred's jacket. He tugged down the collar, frowning. If it hadn't been American, he would have liked it. The RAF had new fighters and bombers now, and beautiful things they were. It was a shame he hadn't been selected to fly.

The bugle sounded outside, and with a jolt of panic, he remembered that the military job he already had was going to be jeopardized if he didn't get to drill on time. He hastily threw the jacket onto his bed and tugged a brush through the worst of his hair before he rushed off.

0o0o0o

Drill had been even worse than normal with his hangover, but when Arthur returned to his apartment, he wished it hadn't ended yet. There was still a few hours before eight, and all he could do was pace the floor and speculate about who Alfred was. He found himself with the jacket more and more frequently. It was crumpled from being slept in. Arthur supposed it was his obligation to clean it. It was a welcome distraction until the clock finally showed near eight.

He folded the now cleaned and pressed jacket under his arm and started walking, wondering if he'd already made a mistake.

Standing outside the bar, eight o'clock came and went without sign of Americans. Arthur was fuming. Standing here holding the leather jacket, waiting for someone who'd apparently stood him up made him feel foolish. With a huff, he turned to go when someone grabbed his shoulder.

'You came!'

Arthur frowned up at the man. He was younger-looking than he'd first assumed, with messy golden hair and bright blue eyes that shone against the streetlights. He was wearing a simple shirt and tight jeans. Arthur swallowed and forced his eyes back up to his smile.

'Do I know you?' he asked carefully, stepping back.

His expressive face fell slightly. 'You haven't forgotten me, have you? You did drink a lot. At least you found my note. I'm so sorry I'm late, I had to borrow this shirt from Mattie.' He collected himself and offered a tanned hand. 'I guess I should introduce myself again. I'm Alfred F. Jones. I'm in the military too, the Air Force, on one of the bombers, but I'm just not in my uniform. They don't take too well to American uniforms over there.'

'I'm Arthur Kirkland.' They shook.

'I know,' Alfred added. 'I kind of hoped you were going to remember me, but, you...you really don't remember anything? From when I took you home?'

'Not a thing,' Arthur said. Alfred's ears were pink, and he could feel heat rising to his face. 'Why?'

'No reason!' Alfred beamed, his flush spreading across his cheeks. Arthur looked away first. 'You brought my jacket!'

'I did.'

Alfred eagerly took it, shaking it out of the folds. 'Wow, you even cleaned it. You didn't need to do that.'

'It's really nothing.' Arthur coughed and composed himself. 'What's this about the East? If it's too stupidly American, or if it's dangerous, I'm not going to do it. Promises you make when drunk don't count, you know.'

'Really?' Alfred frowned. 'No, it's not dangerous. I've just got a real beauty I need you to help me with. Everything's already set up for us.'

A faintly sick feeling was beginning in Arthur's stomach. 'A...beauty?'

Alfred winked. 'Oh, she's gorgeous. Love of my life. Come on, she's what we're using to get in.'

He broke into a run. Arthur followed. He had no interest in this. He didn't want to help Alfred flirt with some pretty woman to go cavorting in the East. It made sense that the American was so easy about these kinds of things, he thought bitterly. No girl could resist that bright smile.

Alfred soon slowed in front of a garage near the border. Crooning music played softly from behind the brightly spray-painted corrugated steel door. Alfred hauled the door up and motioned him in.

The space was an explosion of colour, and seemed to double as an art exhibit and studio. Strange sculptures and collages lined the space, and the walls were decorated with splatters of paint. People watched their entrance idly before returning to their art. In the middle of it all sat a car.

'There she is,' Alfred said proudly, spreading his arms. Arthur blinked.

'Your... _beauty_ is a car?' he asked, feeling strangely both disappointed and relieved.

'A '55 _Thunderbird_ car,' Alfred corrected, smoothing his hands over the hood. 'Isn't she gorgeous? She's on loan from a friend. You're going to drive her in while I hide. Nobody questions you Brits when you're driving nice cars.'

It _was_ a nice car, in a pleasing robin's egg blue colour, but the whole thing was perplexing. 'Why can't you drive yourself in?'

Alfred waved his question off. 'Don't worry about that. Here, I'll pull it out of the garage. Which side of the road do you drive on here? I can't understand the signs.'

'Drive on the right.'

Five minutes later, Alfred was huddled in the backseat under a blanket and Arthur, feeling ridiculous and fully expecting to be caught and stripped of his military post, pulled up to Checkpoint Charlie. The sign declaring the end of the American sector loomed. He wondered what he would say to the officers if it was discovered he was smuggling Americans across the border.

The officer at the crossing point held out a hand for his papers.

'Name, occupation, and purpose?' he asked in deep, accented English.

'Arthur Kirkland, British Army, for enjoyment.'

After what felt like an eternity examining them, he handed them back and nodded to go. Arthur noticed his hands were very faintly smudged with a variety of bright colours, just like in the garage. In surprise, he glanced up and met startled, piercing blue eyes. They both gripped the papers for another half second before letting go.

Silently, as if still in shock, Arthur pulled the car forward again and through the border. On the other side, leaning against the Wall, a guard watched, gun slung over his back, his skin too pale against his darker uniform. He took the papers as well, coppery eyes flashing out from below the brim of his cap.

'Nice car.' His English was accented and, his mouth seemed to have a permanent snarl. Arthur said nothing. 'Won't get you over if these papers are fake.'

'They're not.'

'Military?' he asked. His mouth curled up into a smile. 'Go ahead. Welcome to the East.'

Arthur nodded, throat dry with nerves, and followed the lines of orange cones to the street.

He parked the Thunderbird behind a nearby building and leaned over to tell Alfred they'd made it, but he'd already leaped out of the car, looking around in amazement.

'Really doesn't feel that different than the West,' he mused. ''Course, the land doesn't care what flag is flown above it. Welcome to the East, Arthur.'

Arthur could argue that it felt a good deal more like someone was always watching over their shoulders, but he kept it to himself.

'Come on, I'm going to buy you a drink,' Alfred said.

'Did you actually have something to do over here or not?' Arthur asked aggravatedly. 'You could have just gone drinking in the West.'

'This is for you!' He beamed. Arthur found himself not for the first time unable to resist, and agreed.

Alfred led them to a smaller place with a carved wooden sign depicting a Roman helmet. The place was crowded to bursting with the construction workers and Wall guards. People carefully sat apart depending on their uniforms. The atmosphere was tense. A spark could set it alight.

Arthur was starting to regret wearing his uniform. As he stood at the door, people turned to gape openly, muttering among themselves. Alfred looked past him and pushed in, lit up like lightning in the grey.

'Where's the music?' he asked. He had a point. The bar was nearly silent. When nobody answered, he broke into a grin. 'Come on, everyone likes music. Where's the fun in silence?'

'Order something or get out,' the bartender growled from the counter. Alfred put down a pile of notes.

'Shot of bourbon and...do you have Tennents?' He glanced back at Arthur. 'The stuff in the can, you know. It's for my friend.'

Arthur was beyond wondering why Alfred knew his order. He accepted the can and sat down at the bar beside a man with an intimidating glare and watched America's finest wreak his havoc.

Oh, Alfred was going to be the death of him.

He picked his way over to the jukebox and climbed up on a stool there.

'Who has requests?' he shouted. 'Come on, there's no way nobody here likes music. You, with the blue coat, next to my friend. What do you want?'

The man might have smiled. It was hard to tell. 'Elvis.'

Elvis music was not what Arthur had expected, but he wasn't going to argue. Alfred nodded excitedly, motioning to the crowd that was now starting to sit up for their drinks and take notice. Either Alfred would be cheered or attacked. Arthur couldn't blame the crowd either way.

Alfred buried himself with the jukebox until the music began to play. The bartender sat back, but some people began to sing, voices rusty from lack of use.'

' _Tomorrow will be too late, it's now or never, my love won't wait…_ '

Alfred encouraged them, crooning out the verses with a passion. His voice still cracked on the long notes. Arthur wondered how old he was, but pushed it away in favour of listening to the soldiers and workers sing, led by the American boy who was now with a foot up on the table, one hand over his heart, one outstretched as if he was singing the anthem. When the song finished, people applauded. Arthur applauded along with them, amazed.

Alfred collapsed into the seat next to him, grinning broadly.

'How are you?' he asked. Arthur took a moment to think of how Alfred had led the song, but still came back to _him_. It made him feel light and warm at the same time, like drinking just before he was too drunk.

'Good. That was impressive.'

Alfred shrugged. 'I just thought they'd like music. Did _you_ like it?'

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'Of course I did.'

'Good. That's good.' Alfred settled down and threw back his bourbon. 'I like music. I really like stargazing, too, but you can't do it too well in the cities, there's too many lights. I used to go out to the country back home where it was dark and watch all night. What do you like to do, Arthur?'

Arthur had been watching his face light up as he spoke and shook himself out of staring.

'I had a book of poetry,' he began hesitantly.

'Awesome! Can I read it?'

'No, I sold it. I lost all my money to a bet with an annoying Frenchman,' Arthur said bitterly. 'It's not the point. I remember it had Keats' odes in there.'

Alfred blinked. 'Who's Keats?'

Arthur finished his can and set it aside. His body was warm and easier and Alfred was watching him with such intensity. He smiled. 'What do you mean you don't know who John Keats is? Don't tell me all you like is Elvis. I'll have to introduce you to good writing and better rock music.'

'That sounds good,' Alfred said warmly. Arthur knew he should look away and say something to break their quiet ease, but for once, he didn't.

Finally, Alfred nodded, as if he'd just confirmed something, stood up, and held out his hand. Arthur took it and Alfred pulled him to his feet.

'Thanks for all of this,' he said. 'Driving me over and letting me do everything.'

'It's for you,' Arthur said. 'A gift, I suppose. You…helped me yesterday, and now our debts are repaid.' The bell jingled as they left.

'So that's it?' he asked with a hint of disappointment. 'Can I still, y'know-see you around?'

'Of course,' he said in surprise. 'I'm not going anywhere. Where can I go? The Wall is up.'

'Oh. Right!' Alfred was shivering in his T-shirt. Arthur felt bad, and passed him his uniform jacket. It was only right, seeing as he had lent him the leather jacket last night. 'Thanks, Artie.'

'I'm sure I've said not to call me that.'

'Oh, yeah. Sorry.'

'Don't mention it.'

Alfred tucked himself into the jacket, broader shoulders curling in to fit. 'We'll have to see each other again before my term here is done,' he promised earnestly. Arthur agreed.

They were almost back to the car, and night was beginning to fall.

'What did you want over here for, after all?' Arthur asked in amusement, expecting something just as dangerous and electric as Alfred-a spy mission, or a secret political power shift.

'I wanted to see the Brandenburg Gate,' Alfred answered instantly. 'Here, can you take a picture of me with it?'

Arthur stopped in disbelief to rethink exactly how stupid Alfred F. Jones could be, considering he'd risked both their jobs and their lives to get a photograph of him with a building, but accepted the small camera and took a picture.

'Thanks, man! Here, I'll get one of you, too.'

'Hold on,' Arthur protested, but Alfred had already positioned him in front of the Gate and snapped a photo.

'You look great,' he assured him.

'You're a menace,' Arthur muttered, trying to fix his hair from where Alfred had accidentally ruffled it.

Alfred just laughed. 'Come on, we should get back to the car.'

The drive back across was without incident. Arthur hoped nobody asked where his uniform jacket was, but the pale guard had left and the man on the other side just nodded him through.

Maybe the land didn't recognize flags, but Arthur certainly breathed easier on familiar soil. He drove up to the garage. Alfred sat up from the back and clambered carefully into the front.

'I'm glad we did this,' he said sincerely. Arthur coughed again.

'Yes, well. It was nice enough. Don't expect me to do it again, though. Your American antics aren't worth my job.'

'Alright, Artie.' Alfred reached out suddenly and pushed a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. Arthur gripped the steering wheel harder, eyes on him. 'I...I'll catch you again somewhere. Tomorrow? Are you free tomorrow? Same place, maybe at noon? I could go for some lunch.'

Arthur found himself nodding, mouth too dry to speak clearly. Rain had begun to fall outside their windows, past the shelter of the garage, and the car was warm and safe and close. Alfred absolutely shone with excitement. He stripped off Arthur's jacket and folded it up before handing it back. It was a poor folding job, in honesty, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to care.

Alfred got out of the car and ran out into the rain. His shirt stuck against his shoulders and outlined the dip at the base of his spine, right above his hips. Arthur swallowed hard.

'Good thing we missed this in the East,' he said, winking, and ran off, whooping. Arthur only realized after he'd gone that his small camera was still clutched in his hand.

Arthur carefully wrapped the camera in his jacket, stowed it underneath his arm to shield it from the rain and kept to the overhanging eaves when he walked.

There was no way he could go back to camp this charged and dizzy. There was a film shop he'd seen coming in, and after a hazy few minutes of wandering, he found it and asked to develop the pictures. When they were done, he quickly took them home.

This feeling wasn't from the drinking. It was from Alfred F. Jones, a lingering buzz of emotion through every bone in his body. Arthur was already looking forward, though he didn't want to admit it, to tomorrow.

When he got up to his apartment, he took out the photographs. His-he looked flushed and confused and out of his depth, with a hesitant smile. His hair was sticking up from being manhandled in front of the Gate. But there-Alfred, hair upswept, arms flung out to hold the world, the lights of the city just barely coming on behind him in a blur of gold. The Gate-the old architecture should be the focus, but it wasn't. Arthur stared and stared at Alfred's smile and his eyes and his mouth and those jeans. Oh lord, those jeans.

He carefully placed the picture aside, buried his face in his pillow, and lay there, silently sleepless, until dawn was edging grey light through his window.

 **0o0o0o**

 **The Thunderbird car mentioned is from a note in the comic strip.**

 ** _:: The smell of gasoline from old cars when it's hot_**


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur had carefully stowed the pictures and camera in his cabinet, out of sight, before breakfast. What had happened-what _still_ was happening, still blossoming between him and Alfred was a dangerous secret. Arthur's brothers had long had their suspicions about his preferences, but he hoped the news hadn't progressed to the rest of the troops. It would lead to him being dishonourably discharged at the very least.

His hair was still tousled from Alfred when he went down for breakfast, and he absentmindedly picked at the oatmeal. He was thinking of Alfred's photo again, and his mind was drifting back to those damnedly tight jeans-who even wore jeans like that except ridiculous Americans? Stupidly charming, brash, bourbon-drinking Americans, and their laughs and jeans and _jackets_ -

' _Arthur_ ,' someone next to him said in a tone that implied it hadn't been the first time. Arthur jolted out of his reverie, hurriedly forcing his smile into a look of dismissive neutrality. His heart was thumping against his ribs in worry that he'd have been seen. The soldier squinted at him, smoke curling up around his ears. Arthur racked his brains to remember his name and came up blank.

'I didn't get much sleep last night, my apologies,' he said, not so much faking his yawn as encouraging it. 'What did you say?'

'You've been smiling into your grits for two days,' he pointed out. 'Did you get yourself a girl?'

Arthur couldn't help his face heating up. 'No,' he said quickly.

'Why not? The girls prefer us soldiers with a bit of money,' he said offhandedly. 'Tell you what, I'll go with you tonight and help you out. Show you around.'

Arthur couldn't think of anything he'd rather do less. He fumbled for an explanation that didn't include that he was going to lunch with an American soldier and came up blank. He would have to agree, and nodded.

The soldier nodded decisively as well, looking pleased. As disgruntled as Arthur was, he couldn't fault him as much as he wanted.

'I'll be busy until quite late,' Arthur said brusquely, hoping to salvage some of his day. The soldier laughed and clapped his shoulder.

'No worries, I'll wait around until you get back.'

Arthur forced somewhat of a smile and shoveled down the rest of his bland porridge.

0o0o0o

Arthur arrived to the bar early, the photographs bundled in his pocket, wanting to treat himself to a drink or two. Maybe if he was drunk, it would be easier to tell Alfred he had to cut their day short in order to go off with a soldier he barely knew and pay a girl to-

He shook himself out of it. No use ruining the one brilliant thing about his military job here with reminders of that. He was about to push the door open when he spotted Alfred already inside, talking to someone at a far table. His jacket was hung over a chair nearby.

Feeling slightly disappointed and not knowing why, Arthur hesitated. The offer to find a girl seemed slightly more attractive, in a strange way. It couldn't be that he was _jealous_ , it was only that he'd wanted Alfred to focus on him.

Just as he was about to leave and come back later, Alfred turned and caught his eye. Arthur was reflecting that the military should have been no place for someone like him to find someone like Alfred. They were from different units, different branches, different countries, but Alfred still lit up when he saw him. Arthur gave him a smile back and came in.

Alfred met him at the table, pulling out both their chairs. He was wearing the same shirt, but dress slacks. Arthur was more than slightly flattered and impressed. It didn't hurt that he looked good in the sharp clothes. His enthusiasm, however, was unchanged.

'Artie! I mean, Arthur!' he exclaimed, his ears reddening slightly. Arthur didn't reprimand him-it was almost endearing, as much as he would normally hate the nickname. Even in the dim light, Alfred gleamed just as brightly as ever. 'Do you like this place? A lot of my troops come here.'

Arthur delicately decided not to say that _he'd_ used to come here before the Americans overran it. 'It's nice enough. You don't have any more mad plans today, do you?' he asked archly, accepting the Tennets that was handed over.

'Not yet,' Alfred answered cheerfully. He spread his tanned, large hands out on the mahogany table, and Arthur had a sudden urge to place his on top. He grabbed for his drink instead and took a deep gulp, almost choking on it, instead. Alfred, to his credit, didn't notice.

'You know how I was talking to the two back there, you see, the one who's blond, six something and built like a tank with the pretty curly-haired artist who's talking to him?' Alfred gestured in a way Arthur guessed was supposed to be subtle. He glanced over the rim of his drink, easily finding the severe blond haircut. His pulse sped up. It was the guard he'd spoken to yesterday, with the paint on his hands, and so the artist must be his girlfriend.

He looked sideways and the artist caught his eye. His hair was a mess of curls and there was paint smears on his clothes. Arthur's heart nearly stopped. This was _not_ the guard's girlfriend, but-well, he was rather attractive, but _Alfred_ had called him-

'As I was saying, the artist, he's Italian and I heard him say this one phrase when I was walking by: _ti amo_.' Alfred looked rather proud of himself. Arthur didn't have the heart to tell him his pronunciation was terrible. He didn't know how to breach the subject of how he'd called him _pretty_. 'And I asked, and he said it meant _I love you_.'

Arthur realized in an instant _exactly_ what was happening at the next table and sat in shock. It wasn't like he hadn't _expected_ some of it, this being Berlin, but it made his skin prickle down to his fingertips and he wanted to talk, or to meet, or just to lock eyes with them and know if they saw the same in him, or in Alfred.

Alfred continued, blissfully unaware.

'I think I'd like to learn those kinds of things. Y'know, charm someone by doing something in another language. I tried getting Mattie to teach me some German a while back but I can never pronounce it right.'

'I don't know any other languages,' Arthur managed. 'Except French, which doesn't count.'

It was the only thing he could think of to say. Alfred finally noticed what Arthur was sure was his flamingly red face.

'Are you okay?'

'Perfectly fine.' Arthur grabbed for the nearest glass and took a long drink. It happened to be Alfred's bourbon, but he supposed he was acquiring a taste for it. Alfred watched him, his smile broadening, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Arthur felt even more flustered.

'If you want me to buy you bourbon after this instead of your pinup beer, I'll do it,' he said. Arthur had no idea what to say-his heart pounded and his mouth was dry and Alfred's hand lay next to his, and in a stupid, reckless movement that Arthur hoped looked accidental, he shifted back and placed his hand so their fingers overlapped.

'I don't say no to free alcohol,' he said, voice cracking slightly. 'Even if it is American.'

'I knew I'd turn you,' Alfred said, grinning, and ordered another two glasses for the both of them.

Arthur was most of the way through his glass when Alfred spoke again.

'Not that I don't love drinking with you, but I did offer to buy you lunch, so…' He shrugged and his ears pinked again. Arthur stared. 'I'll get us burgers?'

'They sell burgers here?' Arthur asked, impressed that he'd planned in advance.

'I don't know. Hey!' Alfred flagged down the nearest girl. 'Machst du...burger? Do you have burgers here?'

She nodded and left. His pronunciation was truly terrible, but he looked satisfied. As they waited, Arthur wondered about how to tell him what he'd agreed to, but the idea of what Alfred's expression would be when Arthur said he was leaving him for that made his stomach twist.

It's not like he would understand, Arthur thought bitterly. Alfred joked about his girl, his _beauty_ , his Thunderbird. With his looks, he had probably never had problems charming any girl into his bed. He'd said the artist was _pretty_ , but it was such an offhand remark that it could have meant nothing. He wouldn't get that Arthur had to do this so people wouldn't start to whisper things that would get him discharged, and Arthur was in no mood to explain.

It wasn't fair to either of them, but that was the kind of life that had to be lived.

'Hey, Arthur,' Alfred said, his voice strangely intense and quiet. His hand shifted closer, wrapping against his until their fingers were almost twined. Those blue eyes looked into his, and Arthur was caught. 'Are you okay?'

He would have said that he was fine, but the door was thrown open and Alfred was out of his chair and shielding his body with his. It had all happened in a heartbeat, and Arthur's hand that usually dropped to his gun was tangled in a tight grip with Alfred's. His heart raced. Alfred's skin smelled like chocolate and sunshine and bourbon and his leather jacket. His hand was gripping so tightly Arthur nearly couldn't feel it, but everything else hummed.

'Altercation at the border, near Checkpoint Charlie. All American troops on duty and police who are stationed in the area are ordered to prepare,' the man said, before turning sharply on his heel and disappearing once more. The door swung shut, and Arthur blinked to get the afterimages of the brightness away.

Alfred didn't move for a moment. Then he slowly stepped back. Neither of them let go, which was stupid to do in a bar full of soldiers rushing out, but those blue eyes made the world disappear.

'Guess I have to go, Artie,' Alfred said with a slight laugh, but it fell away.

'But you're a pilot.'

'I have to go back to my bomber.' Alfred shrugged jerkily. His eyes were blank. 'It must be serious if we're all being called in.'

Arthur was suddenly swept by a wave of terror. Alfred could turn this city to ash if one thing went wrong. He gripped Alfred's hand harder, focusing him back on his words.

'Don't you go and get us all into a certain-death situation, you reckless, stupid American, you hear me?' he hissed. His eyes stung. Tonight, everything could be destroyed, and this fragile love born in these backstreets vanished. Alfred, in all his wonderful brightness, could set a city aflame.

Alfred's strained expression broke into a sad smile. 'It's not my choice to drop the nukes, Arthur. I just follow orders.'

'Well, then that's the problem, isn't it?' Arthur said, blinking against the halos of lights. 'Following this war. Haven't you thought about this? Could you really destroy it all?'

This was treacherous talk-soldiers saying what they all knew, that a single pilot could destroy so much. But Arthur had started to fall in love with the way the lights from the oldest streets here shone off Alfred's hair, with the way he seemed to be an extension of this wild city with how he looked in the rain. Berlin had changed him. If this city could be art instead of war, Alfred could be, too. With all his beautiful kinetic energy, he could never be just another soldier bound to orders.

Alfred looked torn for a second, and his other hand brushed back his hair. 'I think it's pretty clear between us, Arthur,' he said softly, 'which one's the worldly one. You know poetry and French and you're brilliant for everything. I'm just a pilot. That's all I'm good for. But even I get it when the big ones say we're facing M.A.D.'

' _You're_ mad,' Arthur told him. _And I love it_.

'I'm mad enough to promise you that whatever happens at that border today, I will not follow an order to bomb,' Alfred swore to him. And then he grinned, a short flash of white teeth, and kissed Arthur's knuckles.

For a second, he floated. Alfred understood. And then the real world came rushing back in, and Arthur realized there was still an officer in the nearly empty bar. The guard he'd seen yesterday, with the paint-stained hands, was standing beside them, staring. Alfred's grip tightened on his hand before he dropped it and stepped away. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing to say. The action had been both of their death warrants.

Arthur looked up and met his blue eyes, piercing and stern. He searched for a hint that what he'd guessed was right. For a moment that felt like an eternity, Arthur and the guard stared into each other's eyes, until something changed in the icy depths.

'If the Americans command a bombing, get Feliciano out of Berlin with the troops,' he said. His voice was still deep, but it caught slightly on the name.

'Of course,' Arthur promised, gratefulness making him weak. The guard nodded sharply, eyes shifting to Alfred. Without another word, he turned on his heel and marched away.

'He's not going to…?' Alfred looked confused. Arthur just laughed. Everything in him was loose and exhausted with relief.

'He's like-' He caught himself before he said _us_. The reminder still stung. 'He has preferences. He thinks we're the same way.'

'He has preferences?' Alfred's brow furrowed, and then his gaze landed on the artist, Feliciano, and sudden understanding dawned in his eyes. 'Oh, he's...but I _am_ -'

Someone outside shouted to go, and Alfred jolted up and ran. Arthur watched him go, wishing despite himself that he'd said a better goodbye just in case.

He folded the stirrings of feelings back behind his heart and turned to Feliciano, jerking his head at the door. The silence hung too heavy in the bar now. As they walked out into the bright sunlight, Arthur tried to talk.

'I'm keeping you safe for a bit,' he said. 'In case the city gets bombed.'

'It won't,' Feliciano said. 'It's probably just a political dissent at the border with this group of revolutionaries. Ludwig told me about them.'

'Ludwig. Is that his name?' Arthur asked. 'How do you know him?'

'We...we're just friends,' Feliciano said. His face was slightly red, and he looked over apprehensively. Arthur glanced around before taking a deep breath.

'I understand what you two are like,' he said. 'My friend-Alfred, the American, you know-overheard you. He didn't realize, but I did.'

Feliciano had stopped in the middle of the street. Arthur turned back to him. His face was lit up with a mixture of fear and hope.

'Don't tell anyone,' he whispered. 'Please. I mean, you can tell if you want about me, even my brother knows, but Ludwig said his brother argued with him about-'

'I won't,' Arthur interrupted. 'Your-your Ludwig saw Alfred and I.'

'Is Alfred the same way?' Feliciano asked curiously. Seemingly reassured, he fell back into step. Arthur laughed harshly. As much as he would have liked to say yes, he wouldn't give himself that hope.

'No. It's just me.' Just me, he thought bitterly, standing around and disclosing the information that would cost him everything to every stranger he'd just met.

'Oh. But I thought…' Feliciano squinted at him for a disconcerting moment. 'If you say so.'

'I do,' Arthur said, ignoring how off-balance he felt. 'Now, I suppose I should take you back to base.'

0o0o0o

Arthur had been worried about how his fellow soldiers would treat the artist, but Feliciano charmed them. He immediately launched into a talk about the art scene, and people were fascinated.

'Take care of him,' he requested. 'If anything happens at the border, take him out of the city with you. If nothing happens…'

'I'll find my way back,' Feliciano put in. He beamed. 'I've never been to a British base. I asked Ludwig to show me the checkpoint, but he wasn't allowed.'

'Agreed,' the soldier from the morning said with a smile at him, which he then turned on Arthur. 'So, Arthur, are you ready to go for a night? It might be your last chance for a while, given the situation near the checkpoint.'

Arthur resigned himself to an uncomfortable hour. 'Fine.'

The walk down to the district was nothing like walking around the East with Alfred. All Arthur could concentrate on was the absurdity of it all, the awkward way he could think of nothing to say, and the brightness of the sun in his eyes. He'd taken off his jacket, it was too hot.

'You look tense,' the man said suddenly. 'Maybe you want to loosen up a bit at a bar before we go?'

Eager to delay the dreaded action as much as possible, Arthur allowed himself to be led into one of the bars lining the street.

They sat down and Arthur ordered bourbon before he thought twice. The soldier raised an eyebrow at him.

'Ain't bourbon a touch American?'

'I ordered a round for some Yankee who was too drunk to do it himself yesterday,' Arthur lied smoothly, though his pulse jumped. 'My mistake. I'll have Tennets.'

They brought his bourbon regardless, and Arthur secretly savoured the memory of Alfred. The awkward conversation died out quickly, and they sat and drank in quiet. Silently, Arthur let himself fume over what he had to do later. He'd nearly never had any interest in this, and it was useless to ponder how it would be with a man. Especially Alfred, because that road led only to heartache.

Arthur must have been further gone than he thought, because when the ideas of Alfred started to crowd against the edges of his forced imagining of what his time would be like with the girl, he didn't ignore them like he had before. He closed his eyes and tasted liquid courage and let himself imagine Alfred close and warm and his, touching and being touched-

It would never feel right doing this, Arthur knew. And maybe he was drunk and dizzy and longing, and maybe this was stupid and would lead to problems, but he wasn't going to go find some girl and spend the entire time wishing she was someone else. If his life would only crash into Alfred's brash energy in the streets of Berlin for a few short weeks, he was going to enjoy them, damn it all.

He slammed down his glass harder than he meant to and stood up. The floor swayed.

'I have to go,' he said. The man looked up in surprise, but his eyes were hazy.

'Why?'

'It's important,' Arthur said, waving him off and staggering from the bar towards the Wall. He was going to find his American and tell him what he wanted, or at least tell him what he hadn't done. He'd made it to the outskirts of the square when he saw the bruised and bloodied protestor being led away, the smears of copper on the ground, and the soldiers on both sides disbanding. He'd made it just in time.

He turned around to go find the American base. It couldn't be that difficult, he thought, but it was almost dark before he found it.

'I have a message for Alfred F. Jones,' he told the private who questioned him. 'Where is he?'

He was pointed towards a large apartment-style building and told the number, and before he knew it, Arthur was knocking on a simple wooden door adorned with a flag and a poster of an eagle. Alfred opened the door, looking as wonderful as ever, and his expressive face changed through astonishment, confusion, and joy.

'Arthur!'

'Can I come in?'

'Of course, we're friends.' Alfred sat them both down in armchairs with glasses of bourbon. More drinking might not have been the best idea, but Arthur drank anyways. His head was spinning and pleasantly blurry.

'Brought you your pictures,' Arthur mumbled, thrusting out his jacket. Alfred rifled through the pockets and pulled out the two, which he stared at for a long moment before setting carefully on the table. There was a quiet of drinking before he spoke again.

'So, why are you here? Can't have just been for the pictures,' he said, like it had just occurred to him. Arthur laughed. The room was tipping dangerously and Alfred's gaze was locked on his, which only made him dizzier.

'Another soldier tried to get me to go out and get a girl,' he said. Alfred nodded.

'I get that. You know, my team is always saying I should go out and do that, blow off steam, whatever.'

'Did you?' Arthur asked.

'Once,' Alfred said, and finally broke their gaze. 'Wasn't all I expected, really. Why'd you drop out?'

'It's not what I prefer,' Arthur said archly. His words felt sluggish, and he couldn't stop saying what was on his mind. 'I talked to Feliciano. He's the same way as me, 'cept I think he also does it.'

'Does what?'

'Like girls.' The words were out and Arthur should feel panic, but there was only the warm weight of alcohol and the waiting. Alfred didn't say anything for a long moment. Arthur downed the last of his liquid courage and leaned forward. Alfred did too, until they were nearly touching. Arthur could count his eyelashes and the shading of his blue-sky eyes. 'Go on, ask me why I'm not out in the district with a girl right now.'

'Why?'

'I don't want them. I want you instead.'

Alfred was very still for a second, and then said, shakily, 'You shouldn't say that.'

'I don't care,' Arthur said, grabbing his bourbon and taking a sip. 'My brothers already suspect. ''Less you tell the army…' There was a faint prickle of fear at that, but he was too warm and loose to care about anything but Alfred right now. His beautiful blue eyes crinkled around the edges again in a strange expression, and he laughed, gripping the edges of his chair. His face was flushed red.

'I ain't telling anyone, Artie. The only person you're killin' with those words is me.'

'Why?'

'Gives me hope,' Alfred said. He blinked slowly. 'Doesn't matter, though.'

'Why?' Arthur asked again. Another slow blink.

'Did you really forget everything about that first night?'

'Yes.'

Alfred's brow furrowed in a sort of smile. 'I brought you home and-and kissed you on the forehead, called you darlin'. I know I shouldn't have.' He leaned closer, thumb stroking against the back of Arthur's hand. 'I thought...thought when you came back the next day, you were tellin' me you didn't want that by pretending you forgot me. So I backed off.'

'You're stupid,' Arthur said. Something inside of him ached at the idea of Alfred's voice around the word _darlin_ ', and he cursed that he couldn't remember it. Alfred closed his eyes and his smile grew.

'Not stupid enough to start a war.'

'Good.' Arthur lifted the glass to take another drink and found Alfred's hand covering it and intense blue eyes on his. His heartbeat was a hum.

'Do you want me to be sorry for what I did?' Alfred asked him.

'No.'

'Good.' Alfred's smile broke exultant and close, close to his. 'Because I don't regret it. In fact, I kind of want to…'

'Do it again,' Arthur said, challenging, wanting, everything in him straining towards this. Alfred stared into his eyes for a heartbeat and then whispered, ' _Alright, darlin_ ',' against his neck and kissed right next to his mouth.

They broke apart. Arthur was buzzing to his fingertips. This felt like a dream, but Alfred was here, and beautiful.

'That wasn't on the forehead,' he said. He took a long drink of his bourbon and set the empty glass down. Alfred grabbed the bottle off the table and refilled both their glasses.

'Didn't mean it to be.'

'Good,' Arthur said, because everything was good, lying here with this American soldier, feeling lighter than he had since before he arrived in the city.

They shared the rest until the sunlight spilled in gold in the morning.

 **0o0o0o**

 ** _:: Painting bold colours_**


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Arthur noticed when he woke up was the warmth. Everything was hazy and blurred around the edges, deliciously slow, and he was wonderfully warm.

He remembered the smell of the bomber jacket, and rolled over to be closer to the wool collar, breathing in the scent of chocolate and leather and sunlight. Of Alfred. The thought made him smile, and his mind drifted back to memory. Yesterday had been the bar and then the terrible news of the border incident, and then having to leave for the girl, and then-

Someone warm and broad and steady hummed against Arthur's neck in his sleep, goldenrod hair tickling against their necks. Someone whose hands were faintly rough and who was warmer than the late morning sunlight and who smelled like _bourbon_.

Oh God, he was sleeping in Alfred's arms. He'd drank with him and confessed to him and been _kissed_ by him. Arthur was frozen. He had never intended for this silly dalliance with an American soldier to become anything that could threaten his time here. Except with Alfred, nothing was silly or impossible, and when Arthur thought of him, he forgot about danger and losing his military job and everything that wasn't _him_ , with his brilliant blue eyes.

His head was pounding. They'd drank for hours, trading meaningless words and kisses. Arthur shouldn't know what his sun-roughened skin felt like under his lips. He shouldn't long to feel it again.

He was hopelessly and forever lost to Alfred, and that would only hurt them both. Even though it felt like his chest was tearing like paper and everything was tumbling into a dark yawning space inside, Arthur slipped out of his embrace and straightened his uniform. He hesitated for a moment at the door, itching to write a note to explain, but what could he even say? It reminded him of the note still tucked into his wallet, in that messy, looping scrawl.

 _It's time to live, Arthur, now or never_ , he'd written. Arthur looked back to where Alfred turned over on the couch, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. If he left now, if he applied for leave to get away as soon as possible from the loud art of this city and his American's blue eyes, he would never have this again. He could continue on with life safely.

He would lose Alfred forever.

He opened the door and stepped out. The door shut with a final click behind him, and he walked quickly down the stairs. He wanted to rage and scream. He wanted to run back and wake Alfred up to see the sky-blue of his eyes and hear his stupid accent and nicknames and find out if he tasted like bourbon when they kissed properly. He wanted Alfred, all of him, damn the danger and their jobs and the whole world against them.

He wrapped his jacket tighter around him and kept walking. One foot in front of the other, into the chilly morning and beyond, all the way back to his own base and bed where he stripped down to his sweat-soaked undershirt and wrapped himself in the covers, losing himself to a final dream.

He would have his memories of Alfred underneath the steady soft moonlight backdropped by the city he said he was here to save. Of all the things he noticed first about him. Blue eyes, blond cowlick, grinning like the world was his- God, Arthur would give it if he was able.

His head hurt, pounding the message past his blurry thoughts. _Don't_. Don't fall in love with him, he was an artist, a pilot, a firebrand-

Branding his way into Arthur heart before he disappears, his headache said, just like everyone else he'd loved. Alfred was a man too in love with life to remember humanity. This was modern-day Apollo, uncaringly bright and beautiful, but he could step away back into the pulsing dark lights or back to his landlocked camp or back home and never think of the word _American_ or name _Alfred_ again.

His head told him _don't fall in love with this one_. His heart said it was too late, far too late already.

0o0o0o

He didn't know if he slept or woke up by the next morning, only that his hair was a mess and his mouth tasted like sour bourbon and everything hurt.

'Arthur?' The voice was less abrasive than usual. Arthur looked up, not bothering his hide his irritation. It was the man from yesterday, and his mouth twisted in dislike.

'What do you want?'

He held up his hands, looking worried. 'Are you okay? You ran off yesterday, and you're…' He trailed off. Arthur turned away.

'Fucking Americans,' he muttered. It felt good to say in a vindictive way, to curse every wild, bright thing he'd fallen in love with. The man laughed.

'You have that right.'

Arthur ate, not tasting his food. He had only the bitter bite of what he needed to do. As soon as he'd shoved the last bite into his mouth, he picked up his plate to go, ignoring the questions behind him.

The man at the office squinted at him and the file, running a finger down the list of names.

'Arthur Kirkland, right? You want leave?'

He pushed back the hurt and fear over Alfred. 'As soon as possible.'

'You really want to go now? Berlin is just getting good.' The man penciled in his request and winked at him. 'You heard some poor chap got stopped at the border a few days ago? Apparently the guards didn't recognize the car he was driving and the Americans got mad on our behalf. Ain't that sweet?'

Arthur's heart sunk. 'Very.'

'We can get you home in a month or two. Right when the new American troops leave.'

Two months. His heart sunk and seized and swelled up with feeling all at once. Arthur could hear the note of desperation in his voice. 'That's not quick enough.'

'It's plenty quick. You sure are eager.' He leaned across the table, the elbows of his tweed suit stained with graphite. 'You trying to get home to a girl?'

For some reason, that was the final straw that broke him, roiling pain and anger welling up from all his hurts, and he slammed his hand down on the table. The man jumps back.

'No!' Arthur snarled, before guilt followed the blinding red anger. 'No. I just need to get away.'

'I know.' The man sounded almost understanding. 'Berlin sure is a damn piece of work, right? But God, you can't deny that it's got a kind of beauty, as dangerous and terrible as it is. Maybe that's what makes it so good.'

'Yes.' Arthur felt suddenly exhausted. 'It's that sort of city.'

The man called out something, but he was already gone. He thought he'd feel lighter after the decision was out of his hands, but instead he felt heavy and dark and lonely. He wished futilely, uselessly, to be with Alfred again, but he couldn't be. He would never be again.

He wandered aimlessly for what felt like far too many hours until he found himself near the Wall. The Soviets had done their work on it, and concrete was already rising like brooding sentries along the foot. He sat down on one of the cracked chunks of concrete left over from construction and buried his head in his hands.

'You know, you're the second person I've found sitting around here,' a voice from the other side said. Arthur looked up, ready to spit out an insult, and saw a familiar face through the last coils of barbed wire that shocked him out of it. He could never forget how pale the guard was. His eyes held no recognition, which was better, Arthur bitterly supposed. Who was he compared to the brilliance of Alfred?

'Who was the first?'

He cocked his head. His scratched gun gleamed. 'Someone in love with an artist.'

'Oh.' Arthur went back to staring at his hands. Any memory of Alfred was too painful now. It was too easy to think of this man as the enemy, and he pushed all of his frustrations into his figure. 'Don't you have places to be? Shouldn't they lock you in one of those new towers and make you shoot the people walking by?'

'If the colonel is shooting anyone, it'll be me.' The man sat down, every movement casual and languid. 'They called me in for something at the border. You're British military, aren't you? Have you seen anything with an officer named Ludwig? Six feet tall, all bulky muscle and broad shoulders, blue eyes?'

He did remember Ludwig, but he wasn't about to say so. Besides, he wasn't going to tell this man that he'd been with an artist. 'Why?'

'I just want to know if he's still alive.' There was a hint of desperation in his voice. Arthur wasn't a cruel person, but pain made him angry and ready to lash out at this man who seemed to resemble so much the hungry, ambitious way life had turned to in the East.

'I haven't.' He stood up. 'If you'll excuse me, I have to go back to saving this city from you.'

'Damn right you should,' he heard him say with a harsh chuckle, all evidence of pain so hidden it was like it never existed, and then fainter. 'I tried to do the same thing.'

'What did you say?' Arthur asked, turning on him.

'Come down to the border. It'll be a show. Even I was called in. I'm not even a gunner.' He grinned and continued walking, disappearing behind the concrete border.

Arthur had better things to do than chase after a Eastern guard's taunt. He got up and started walking back to base.

As soon as he got there, he was accosted by shouts and hands on his shoulders, thrusting him into a swirl of panicked people shrugging on uniforms and guns.

'Where have you been, Kirkland?' His commander demanded.

Shocked out of his reverie, Arthur tried to defend himself. 'I was only taking a walk. There was no drill today, I thought.'

'There isn't.' The man he'd reluctantly continued to run into said from his shoulder. His face was pale and drawn. 'It's the real thing. The Americans and Russians have tanks at the checkpoint.'

In that moment, everything snapped horrifying into place. Berlin, always such a volatile place, could explode into war in the next few minutes. Life as they knew it would be gone. Everyone in this city could die if the Russians, or God forbid, the Americans, brought in their nukes. Arthur could die today, when there was still so much life left in all of the young men sent here for a pointless pseudo-war. There were books he'd left by his armchair to read and people to see again and places to see and breathe in the water and stone in the air of. There was Alfred, who he'd run away from, because he was stupid and impulsive and fearful of what could happen between them.

But none of that would matter if the American tank gunners fired. The Russians would fire back, and it would only grow from there, a terrible, painful conflagration.

'What do we do?' he asked, feeling horribly empty and small. His commander shook his head, his grey eyes weary.

'You're infantry, Kirkland. Go out there and fight till the damn end, whatever that may be. This will all be over soon.'

'Yes, sir.' He saluted, a kind of steely pride rising in his chest. The man looked him over, a faint smile on his lips.

'Good man.'

His unit waited by the Wall, guns raised, between the reserve tanks. Across the way, Russian and American tanks stared impassively. A single shot from either of them, Arthur thought, and the world would be plunged back into war.

His blood was rushing in his ears. The city was building to a roar, but for now the only noise was his gloved hands struggling on the gun and the snap of the American flag one of the gunners beside them held. Time stretched out in the grey, of the tanks and the blank sky and the burned and battered city, until nothing mattered but the horrible exhaustion and want for this to all be over.

New units silently arrived to relieve them, and Arthur staggered home and collapsed on his bed still clutching his gun and dreamed of cities burning and blank, empty blue eyes.

When he woke up, everything was quiet. He laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling so drained and empty he couldn't move. The shadows slid across the wall and he finally lurched out of bed and stumbled downstairs. People sat in disorganized, hollow-eyed groups in the mess hall. Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder. The man's eyes were shadowed and his hair stuck up.

'We made it,' he rasped. 'There's no war. No more than usual.'

Arthur nodded, still lost in his thoughts, and pushed out the door to dazzling midday sunlight. They were safe. He couldn't believe it. They were safe, but was there any real safety in this kind of world? How soon would the next crisis be, and could it be averted again, or was war just too deep inside of this city's gunpowder bones?

The bar he'd gone to with Alfred was crowded to bursting and silent. Arthur sat at the bar and people shuffled away from his uniform. Everything felt so lonely and he wanted Alfred beside him more than breathing. He was too to hide his feelings for him today.

'Bourbon,' Arthur whispered at the bar. Everyone was still in silent shock. It had only been sixteen years since the war.

Even when he went home, he wouldn't be able to forget what Berlin and Alfred had carved into him. Powerful, dangerous things like that had a way of making you theirs.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, the door swung open and the familiar silhouette cut across the floor. Bomber jacket, messy hair, slanted shoulders. Arthur sat up, nearly dumping his bourbon over his lap, and Alfred locked eyes with him, mouth still halfway around his drink order.

Suddenly, they were racing towards each other and Alfred was crushing him in his arms, head buried in the crook of his neck. The dull grey shock was lost in the smell of his sunlight, the heat of his leather jacket meaning that he'd just stepped out from his metal bird. Arthur's chest hurt and he held him tighter.

'There's no war,' he said into that goldenrod hair.

'I promised you.' Alfred's lips were pressed against his neck, radiating warmth. 'I'm your hero. I'm supposed to save the world, not break it.'

'Alfred,' Arthur choked out. He didn't care that they were in a packed bar where people would see them, or that they both smelled like bourbon, or anything else. 'About yesterday- God, I shouldn't have-'

'I missed you, Artie.' A soft, tired chuckle, making his heart flutter. 'It's all going to be okay.'

 **0o0o0o**

 **The tanks mentioned were part of the Berlin Crisis of 1961, where American and Soviet tanks met at Checkpoint Charlie.**

 ** _:: Constant thunder_**


	5. Chapter 5

When Alfred had woken up alone that morning it felt like the world had already fallen out from under him. He'd raged and shouted and drank, but the fact was that Arthur was gone and it was his own fault for starting it all.

He'd thought about that first night they'd met, with the lights of downtown and the way Arthur had looked. He'd fallen in love exactly the way he shouldn't have, but it was so good. And then, last night, it had all come together and for a glorious few hours he'd had Arthur, fiery and brilliant. In the morning, he'd drank and questioned tried to explain whatever the terrible, wonderful feeling he always had was, but it was no use. It was his fault, surely, for being too loud, too obvious in his love. Alfred couldn't love quietly.

He stared at the photographs Arthur had brought him, his stomach twisting. Was this some sort of way to say goodbye? Was Arthur leaving, and had wanted to end this stupid, dangerous affair with him? Everything hurt, simply, and Alfred wished for once that he didn't know what was wrong. The sunlight fanned against the picture of Arthur with that incredible half-smile, the curl of his mouth where he was pretending to be irritated and Alfred's heart fluttered. The lights of the city behind him made him look like an angel.

He sat in the sunlight and drank, staring at the pictures. His jacket still smelled like he did, rain and old books, and it was too much, so Alfred took it off and tried to fold it neatly. Arthur had been going to tell him about rock music and poetry. Keats. Alfred rolled the name over on his tongue, wondering what in it had the power to make people's eyes light up like Arthur's had. Maybe if he'd become a poet instead of a pilot, he could have met Arthur a different way, a better way. He took another drink. There was no use wondering.

He didn't know how much time he'd spent thinking of nothing and everything that could have been, only that he was interrupted by a roaring commotion. He'd long since finished his bourbon, but he swayed when he stood, and rushed to the bathroom to try to sober up. In the mirror, he looked drawn and pale, and bruises stood out against his neck where Arthur had-

- _The sharp nip of teeth and his teasing smile and the sound of them together_ -

He pushed his collar higher and all his thoughts away. It didn't matter. He was Alfred fucking _Jones_ , the best bomber pilot this side of the Soviets. Even if he felt like the world was cold without knowing Arthur was around, he still had his plane.

He shrugged on his jacket and went downstairs. The late night was still coming in, but they didn't talk to him. He didn't want to talk to anybody except Matthew, because he had a way with not letting his headache get worse. Tonight, he looked flushed rosy and questioning, and Alfred was loose enough with bourbon and tired enough to tell him. Only one moment of his words stood out to him.

Arthur is good, Mattie.' And he was, even if Alfred had done everything, everything wrong, from the moment he fell for him.

He slept after that, and dreamed about green eyes just like every other night until he was jolted awake by the roar of a crowd ready to riot. He pulle don his jacket and tried not to think of it, and ran back downstairs into the shouting, fighting his way through until he found his commander. The man looked greyed and drawn.

'Jones, you're needed on the bomber. The Russians have their tanks at the border. You shouldn't need to drop any bombs, but…' He cut off, and his dark eyes met Alfred's. 'You will do what you need.'

The words all swirled together, about tanks and commands. He would have to do what he needed to do to destroy this artistic, confusing, wonderful city where he fell in love. He bit back his words behind a smile.

'Yes, sir.'

'I know I can count on you, Jones. Good man.' He turned away, already shouting to another officer, and Alfred ran back upstairs to try to leave some piece of himself behind for Arthur, even if he'd never see it.

Matthew wasn't awake yet, and he was sleeping in a strange shirt, a pale lavender Alfred hadn't remembered seeing on him before. He could barely remember anything from before. Alfred only had time to beg him for a message before he was running back down the stairs, breathing catching on fear and the stitch in his side, wondering the whole time.

The plane hummed like a radio wire, and everyone inside felt the same way. Alfred swept his hands across the joystick and the instrument panel. He could still imagine the hard eyes of the commander on his, and the way Arthur had spoken, his eyes bright green and insistent. He closed his eyes and groaned. He couldn't destroy the city. He couldn't start the war again, only sixteen years after it had ended.

The plane hummed, silver and sleek, and Alfred stretched out his arms and pressed his palms to the walls of the cockpit where he could feel the rumbling of the engine of thunder. It reminded him of stargazing. Those nights in Nebraska had been worlds away from here, peaceful and sweet with the knowledge that the war was gone. And now he stood here with the power to take all of that away again.

'Hey, Artie,' he said to no-one and anyone, his voice lost in the white noise, his chest feeling like it was splintering open. 'After all of this, I'll show you how to stargaze if you'll teach me poetry.'

The thought was too much, and he stopped wondering at all. It was easier when he didn't have to think, but thinking too much of beautiful eyes and British soldiers was what had made this more than a military occupation, but none of that mattered now. Outside, the city rumbled; outside, the tanks hulked, and inside the silver bird, a boy waited, hands on the control panel, head full of dangerous thoughts, until the orders came again.

'Lieutenant Jones, repeat. Lieutenant Jones. Check all systems, prepare to go on order.'

Alfred felt more than heard the words rattle against his other thoughts. He lifted his head to call out the order, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. If the city would be destroyed, it would not be by his hand.

(Arthur, laughing, and with his hair stuck up by rain, and last night-)

It was hours, hours, and Alfred never stopped thinking until the officers told him it was over. He finally let go of the joystick , his hands throbbing, his head too light. It wasn't over, not really. It never was. Arthur had understood that.

He missed Arthur like breathing, and his chest felt like it was being filled with water when he thought about the tanks at the border. Someone could die there. It could be Arthur.

He couldn't believe Arthur was dead or he'd split down the middle. He couldn't believe he wasn't flying over the divided heart of this nation ready to light the spark of war, and so he didn't. Nobody did. They were a motley group of stumbling soldiers, weaving away from each other and the poisonous touch of orders, trying to make the world sit right on its axis again.

Alfred shouldn't have gone drinking again. He knew he shouldn't, but it was the same way he knew that he shouldn't fall in love with brilliant British soldiers with quick mouths and sparkling eyes, the same way he couldn't care about his uniform and the stares it received. The world was greyer and worse without things like forgetting orders and green eyes and leather jackets, and so he kept them close.

He was in the middle of ordering something he couldn't remember, something that didn't matter, because he looked up and halfway across the bar, just like the first time, was Arthur. Arthur, who hadn't left, who wasn't _dead_ , who was alive and flushed and _beautiful_ , and the greyness fled.

Arthur was out of his seat in a moment and Alfred had always been a fool, so he rushed towards him until they were crushed in each other's arms, in the scent of bourbon and rain and old books. He kissed his neck, too far gone to care.

'There's no war,' Arthur said. Alfred held him tighter, his held-back words about war and heroes all tumbling out.

'I missed you, Artie,' he said softly. His smile was spreading over his face, and things were. It perfect as long as war still loomed, but this was better. 'It's all going to be okay.'

This time, he believed himself. They stood there for a precious second before they had to step away. Arthur's brows furrowed, somewhere between silent question and want. Alfred smiled and sat down at the bar. The quiet murmur grew again, and Arthur's gaze darted back. Alfred could feel the weight of eyes.

'May as well give them something to look at,' he murmured, even though his heart felt like it was cracking again now. Arthur laughed, half-hysterical.

'I thought you were dead,' he whispered. The raw emotion in his voice made Alfred want to hold him again, but he couldn't.

'I won't die while the world still needs me.'

The flash of emotion slid back, and Arthur quirked an eyebrow at him. 'How so?'

'To save it.' He waved down for a glass of bourbon, noting with pleasure that Arthur already had one. The words he couldn't speak hovered on his tongue. _I would gladly give you the world_. He held his tongue and smiled to himself. For now, everything was better.

The jukebox crooned.

' _Funny, you're a stranger who's come here  
Come from another town  
Funny, I'm a stranger myself here  
Small world, isn't it?_'

Arthur noticed, and whispered the next few lines. Alfred recognized them as popular here, but hearing it from Arthur made it enchanting. _  
_  
' _Funny, you're a man who goes traveling  
Rather than settling down  
Funny, 'cause I'd love to go traveling  
Small world, isn't it?_'

But when the song faded, all they were left with was the unspoken words.

'I'm sorry,' Alfred said in the pause. Arthur frowned at him.

'What for?'

'I went too far.' He twisted the cold glass in his hands, his guilt working up through his throat again. 'I always do.'

'Oh. Alfred.' He had a strange, bemused expression. 'No. It's my fault.'

Alfred couldn't meet his eyes, but suddenly Arthur took his hand and pulled him closer. 'Alfred, look at me.'

He cautiously did. Arthur absentmindedly fixed his collar.

'It's just...strange, sometimes. To think someone like you would like someone like me. And so I left.' He shrugged, jerky and disconnected, and finally met his gaze. 'Will you forgive me?'

He laughed in surprise- he couldn't help it, thinking that Arthur worried about what he thought was ridiculous. He was floating, somehow. Arthur scowled, bristling, and it took everything he had not to kiss him right then.

'If you'll forgive me for being a pilot.'

His scowl softened, and Alfred caught the shimmer of tears before he glanced away. 'Bloody pilots.'

'Is that a yes?'

'It's always a yes. For you.' Arthur's thumb rubbed circles against his palm.

'Good.' Alfred clasped his hand in both of his. 'That's really good.'

Arthur shook his head again, pressing his lips together.

'If we had died today…'

'We didn't.' Arthur was still lost to his thoughts, and he gripped tighter, trying to bring him back. 'I'm glad, because if you had left or died or something, you never could have taught me about poetry, and I would have never been able to take you stargazing.'

Arthur finally looked back at him and his mouth pulled to the side, a flicker of sadness shadowing it before he gave that challenging, questioning grin again.

'Stargazing.'

'Yeah.' Alfred shrugged and leaned back in his chair as he raised his glass. Every movement of Arthur's was so familiar, down to the way he couldn't hide his true smile. 'Don't tell me you've never been.'

'Stargazing,' he repeated incredulously. 'Why on Earth would I?'

'Come with me tonight and I'll show you.'

Arthur's face did a strange twist, like he was halfway between laughing and telling Alfred it was stupid. He loved it.

'Come on,' Alfred insisted. 'What can I do to convince you?'

'Nothing.' Arthur leaned forward, grabbing his glass, turning it over in his hands. 'You know, I think I've acquired a taste for this. Bourbon and sunshine and mad Americans, I suppose.'

'Really?' Alfred smiled, heart fluttering.

Arthur drained his glass and eyed him over the rim. His teeth dragged across his lip, biting back a smile, and Alfred swallowed hard.

'Buy me one more drink before we go.'

Alfred laughed in relief and slapped a handful of cash on the counter, feeling like a live wire.

'Done.'

0o0o0o

The sun wouldn't set for hours, and Arthur went back to camp feeling impossibly better if it weren't for one problem. He'd requested leave as soon as possible. With faint hope, he made his way over to the office, hoping they'd only have time for him to go back in a few months, when Alfred left.

'Hey, Kirkland!' The attendant waved to him as soon as he entered, rubbing at an ink stain on his face. 'We got you your leave in only a few weeks!'

Arthur couldn't fake his smile. He just turned around and stormed back out, cursing himself and his stupid, hasty decisions.

If he only had a few more weeks, he was going to make them count. He sat down and found a good pen and some sturdy paper, and thought about Keats.

0o0o0o

The place Alfred had told him to meet was far away from the roaring, glittering lights. Everything was in subtle gradient here, but Alfred sat on the hood of his Thunderbird and shone like the sun. Arthur sat down beside him, enjoying the crackling warmth of the engine below them.

'You came,' he said.

'Of course I did.' Their hands rested so close they nearly overlapped, and in a moment of boldness, Arthur moved so they did. Alfred smiled and turned so they were holding, such a soft thing.

'Look up there, Arthur,' Alfred said. His breath was warm against Arthur's cheek as he slowly pointed towards a star directly above them. 'It's the North Star. Are you watching it?'

'I am,' he said, craning his head back.

'No, not like that,' he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. 'Like this.'

Before Arthur could react, he'd fallen backward and tugged Arthur down until they both lay on the hood, the last heat soaking through them. Sprawled out onto his back, blond hair disheveled and blue eyes alight, the pilot stared at the sky.

'This is how you stargaze, Artie,' Alfred said softly. His blue eyes shone with something Arthur couldn't understand. His heart was so loud he could feel every beat in his throat. He didn't understand how he'd ever been able to not kiss him before.

'You know, you can never see the stars as well out here,' he said, interrupting his thoughts. Arthur barely caught the flash of his gaze before he was looking away again, and he pushed down his want. The darkness hid the colour in his face.

'Why?'

'Worst part about the city is the-' Alfred gestured upwards, his hands the only interruption Arthur could see from where he was lying. 'Light pollution, I think they call it.'

'I don't think it's that bad,' Arthur said. Alfred snorted but offered no explanation. 'What kind of stars have you seen, then, Alfred?' he challenged.

Alfred hummed, his body relaxing out, his shirt riding up to show tanned skin. Arthur stared. 'Have you ever been to the countryside, Arthur?' he asked after what felt like a too-long deliberation, rolling onto his side. Arthur tried to steady his breathing and moved to face him.

'Once or twice. A place somewhere outside London.' The grass here smelled like loamy soil and rain, nothing like gunpowder and alcohol, even mixed with the hot smell of leather and metal. A safe smell, like Alfred.

They were face-to-face, breaths warm in the cool air. Alfred always had strange eyes, that fearless sky blue.

'No. Really out. The kind of place your dad would warn you to be careful because the closest house is miles south. The kind of place where it's so open, the sky is a perfect dome all around you.' He tilted his head upwards. 'My dad had an old house up near the border. Took me there when I was younger, and we lay there in the grass and stargazed.'

Alfred looked back to him, and Arthur was somehow surprised to see wetness in the corners of his eyes.

'God, Artie, I didn't sleep that night,' he admitted through a laugh choked with tears. 'How could I? The sky looked like the angels had painted it!'

Arthur could believe the angels had painted him, lying here silvered by moonlight and bright as gold.

'Someday, I'm going to take you to see those stars. For the experience, if nothing else.' Alfred moved closer, head on his shoulder, close enough to feel their breathing rocking together. 'You deserve the world, you know.'

Arthur cupped his face with shaking, cold hands, and kissed him. This time, there was nothing making him dizzy except the way he tasted like chocolate and the quiet sounds he made.

'I'm sorry,' he said softly, for all that would happen. Before Alfred could speak, he pressed the paper of Keats' poems into his hand and kissed him again, feeling so empty and over-full at once. He didn't know how he'd ever be able to stop kissing him.

But that was something to worry about another time. Arthur closed his eyes and leaned in for him again.

 **0o0o0o**

 ** _:: Metal of old cars popping as it cools_**


	6. Chapter 6

**Warnings for homophobia.**

 **0o0o0o**

The paper of words had lost the clean, neat folds that Arthur must have made. Alfred couldn't stop touching it just to imagine he could feel the ink, unfolding the heavy creases over and over and tracing the swoops of words until it was less script and more the curl of northern lights. He couldn't help it, changing things.

 _I'll drive you back?_ he'd asked, trying to be polite like he still didn't want his mouth and his skin and his whispers all along him. Like it had been a night with one of his girlfriends in high school, not so long ago, when it couldn't be compared. Nothing from then mattered so much as Arthur did now, as this whole city and _world_ had sunken through to his bones and stayed like lightning. The war was here, and the weight of possibility was held between his hands and in the belly of his silver bird. He wanted to be in a time far, far away from this. It would only be a few more months, so he held onto that.

He rolled into his back, still sprawled out in the seat of his Thunderbird outside the art gallery. Life was only lived in the breaths when they weren't soldiers in a split city, but it was _worth_ it for people as confusing and wonderful as Arthur. He opened the paper again, reading the old-fashioned words one last time before quietly starting the engine and parking the car in the garage.

0o0o0o

The world wanted to move on from the night of the tanks. Arthur ate and trained and went drinking with the secret of Alfred- as if he could be a secret, bright as he was- warm under his chest. There was still the fear, if you looked, in the eyes of people who couldn't stop looking at the bombing scars on the concrete. But it was easier for everyone if nobody spoke of it, if it was hidden under the smoke and the glitter and the bold words of _soon this whole damn thing will be done_ , so they didn't.

It would have been better if Arthur had been able to avoid the other whispers, if he'd kept his head down when the men at the other table started wondering about who the _queer_ was who'd been wandering off, _haven't you heard it's with another soldier, too_ -

His spoon clinked around the edge of his bowl just a little too hard. Who had seen him? Who _knew_ \- but the question was who hadn't, he realized with a sinking feeling. He'd all but kissed Alfred in the middle of the bar. Suddenly, leave was just an escape from what might happen if people realized. _Soon this whole damn thing will be done_ , he repeated to himself bitterly. He could feel the scrutiny of the men turned to his table. It was all he could do to keep eating normally and push thoughts of Alfred down.

A bowl clattered to the floor, and he jerked alert with a start, worrying it was his, but the Australian soldier across from him- Jett, or something, with the tendency for street fighting and bandaging cuts across his nose. He had stood up with a look of such unadulterated disgust that Arthur was shocked into silence.

'You got somethin' to say about me, mate, you better come say it to my face,' he spat. His friend, who Arthur only knew as Kiwi, was staring at his food with a look of furious helplessness, and the tension knotted between them seemed so obvious that Arthur didn't know how he'd never realized it before, with how they always seemed to be together.

'What do you want us to say?' one of the men asked mockingly. Jett bared his teeth and took a step forward, and Arthur knew what would happen. The Australian was broad and muscled, but there was far more of the others. Arthur knew Jett in the subtle way that had happened as they'd trained together, and what broke him was the terror in Kiwi's expression.

He looked up, and Jett caught his eyes. The forest green of them was fierce with anger, and Arthur tried to communicate that he knew, he understood, but he would only make it worse.

Jett made a low sound of disgust and spun on his heel, stalking away to stares and silence. Kiwi didn't move until the rush to drill a few minutes later, but Arthur saw him rushing off away from the field. The murmurs were rising like a great wave, pulling him under to relive the look of pure loathing on the Australian's face. For the first time, he realized it might have been at him and his cowardice. He pressed his lips together and concentrated on the metal of his rifle, but the truth of it worked deeper. If it had been _Alfred_ the men were jeering at-

The uncertainty abruptly flamed into rage. That was how Arthur found himself sitting next to Jett and Kiwi at a bar after drill.

'You shouldn't have come to see us,' Jett said bluntly over the rim of his glass. Arthur nodded, and he relaxed slightly. 'You're either brave or…' The sentence trailed off, obviously pointed.

'Well.' Arthur shrugged, face heating up, focusing intently on the pattern of the mahogany. 'I guess I just understand.'

'Who is it?' Kiwi asked from Jett's other side. Arthur cast him what he hoped was a disparaging look, but he couldn't help falling into their familiar camaraderie.

'Is it your business?'

'You're the one who came to find us,' Jett said, but his defensive anger had melted away. Arthur supposed be was right, and it was exciting to talk about Alfred, to have someone else know of his secret.

'Alfred.'

Jett suddenly grinned and clapped him heartily on the back, nearly making Arthur choke on his drink. 'Alfred Jones? American pilot? God, you really got yourself a nice catch, haven't you?'

Arthur _knew_ his face was red, and tried to hide it by ordering another bourbon. 'It's Alfred F. Jones.'

'What does the F. stand for?'

A scrap of their half-remembered first conversation fluttered through his head, the loose alcohol and the sparking interest in his blue eyes and the way Arthur would have followed him anywhere if he'd kept smiling, which he had.

'Alfred _Fucking_ Jones.'

'I like his style,' Jett mused. Then he winked at Arthur. 'Is that why you've suddenly got yourself such a taste for bourbon, Kirkland? Don't think I haven't seen you.'

'It's good alcohol,' he defended, but he was smiling.

'And he's a damn good choice, even for an American.' Jett nodded and sat back, and a hand landed on Arthur's shoulder.

'What do you mean, _for an American_? I'm the best anywhere. I'm the _hero_.' Alfred grinned, and even though his words were for Jett and Kiwi, his gaze never left Arthur's. His face was still flushed from outside, and he shook a stray leaf from his jacket.

'Hello, you,' Arthur said, hoping his heart didn't just burst open right now, looking at him. He caught Jett and Kiwi's slightly awestruck gazes and let Alfred settle them into a table. 'How'd you get here?'

His pilot smiled and bent forward under the pretense of grabbing his drink.

'Felt like wandering. And I told you there was better than Tennets out there, darlin',' he said, lips grazing his ear. Heat shot from the points they touched, and Arthur shivered pleasantly.

'You're willing to bet on that, love?' he murmured, and Alfred's eyes lit up like the fireworks he was.

'Anything for you.'

It was too hard not to kiss him and it was a good thing that Alfred got momentarily distracted by a passing plate of food, because the door creaked open again and familiar silhouettes darkened the light for a moment. The first sign was Jett tensing at the bar, and then the tight clench of Kiwi's hands on a pistol that appeared from under his jacket, expertly loaded and readied out of sight, finger poised over the safety.

'Alfred,' he said, carefully calm. 'There's been whispers, about those two on the bar. They're- they're like us, and those people at the door…' His voice failed.

His open, expressive face couldn't hide a single shift of his anger. He nearly twisted to see who the people were before Arthur pulled him back. 'Who…'

'We need to leave,' he said, but he knew it was a lost cause. Alfred's eyes blazed, and his face was set in a determined twist.

'What have they said?'

'Alfred,' he said, heart breaking a little more. Alfred, always the hero when he shouldn't be, all his beautiful, bright emotions worn on his sleeve.

'Tell me, Arthur.'

He couldn't face those blue eyes. He dropped his gaze and whispered the words. Alfred's eyes hardened until he could almost mistake them for the soldier he'd met by the checkpoint, clear blue like ice and sky and steel.

He stayed still, coiled and about to burst as the men strode up to Jett. They were too far away to hear in the beginning, but the bar slowly fell silent until he could hear every word. His grip on Alfred's arm must hurt now, but it was all that could keep either of them from rushing over. He wanted to let Alfred go. He wanted both of them to be already shouting and fighting. He wanted to let them tear down the Wall and make a world where this didn't matter, this was all better, and Alfred knew. His eyes were fixed on Arthur's with an expression both tender and fierce.

'You won't stop me?' he said softly. Arthur shook his head.

Across the bar, one of the men spat on the ground in front of Jett.

'I heard what happens in jails to queers,' he snarled. 'But maybe you'd like it.' The Australian considered it for a moment before he stood up.

'Fuck you,' he said calmly, and punched him. The man staggered back, clutching his bloody lip. Jett stood up fluidly and lunged for the next man, seemingly unaware of when any blows connected with either him or his target. He just swung again and again, squinting through a bruised eye and gritting his teeth. Alfred was still beside him when they jumped up and ran forward. Arthur knew what would happen if he fought, because for some reason his head was clear and lucid. But it had been a rumour with his brothers already, he supposed with a sort of bitter grin, and this was something good, this was more than the pointless match of tanks and walls and borders. Even the pain in his knuckles and the blood trickling into his eye felt good, electric like Alfred's jacket brushing his fingertips. For now, he forgot to care about the future and the danger.

There was suddenly a heavy thud and a strangled cry from the man Jett had been wrestling with. He had him pinned to the ground with a triumphant, ecstatic expression. He turned to the others, and the grip on Arthur's collar loosened as everyone stared at him.

'Time to go, darlin',' Alfred whispered next to him, carefully releasing the man he held as well. Arthur nodded and they slipped out the door, their hurried pace breaking into a run down the street. Their hands brushed until Alfred wound their fingers together and gave him that damned smile.

'Well,' he said, panting slightly. His hair was even messier than normal. 'We've really got ourselves into something else now, haven't we?'

'It was worth it,' Arthur said. He wasn't surprised to find them on the path to the art gallery again. Alfred started the car and as if by silent agreement, they started to drive to the very edges of their walled West and then the checkpoint, far away from anything but their hands still together between the seats. He wanted to be away from the West for tonight.

Alfred parked the car in a small open space and leaned back to let the wind tease at his hair.

'Bravery is exhausting,' he said, but he didn't look tired in the slightest. There was a wild brashness to his grin and his fingers tapped out radio messages to the stars on the polished hood of his car. He did not look exhausted, no, he looked exuberant in all that he was.

'You know that when we go back…'

'I know.' He gripped Arthur's hand tighter. 'But for now, I've done something good.' His thumb traced concentric circles, and Arthur glanced down at it, amazed as always with his kinetic energy.

'I feel like if I stop moving, I'll collapse,' he explained. 'I feel like the hero, but I'm also so dizzy. You know what I mean?'

'I do,' Arthur said. He moved to kiss the joint of his neck and shoulder, and Alfred breathed out, shuddering against him. 'But I'd rather love Alfred F. Jones than the hero.'

'That's good,' he said. With an enigmatic wink, he turned to dig something out of the glove box. When he came up with a pack of candy, Arthur had to grab him and kiss him again.

'You're impossible,' he told him, careful of the bruise blooming blue on his cheekbone. Alfred chuckled and brushed a hand over his swelling eye, but the blue still gleamed behind it.

'Well, I can still be your hero.'

'That you are.' Arthur moved to sit closer to him on the hood and accepted a piece of candy.

'It's not the good kind.' Alfred's breath was warm on his neck. 'We've got the real stuff back in America. You'll have to try it.'

'Is that a promise?'

His cheerful look turned serious and impossibly adoring. 'For you, it's anything.' His hand found the stray curl of his hair, and he leaned closer. 'Do you want it to be?'

His heart was beating so hard he thought it might stop, that this would be the end of him, too much sunshine and sugar. 'I do.'

His blue eyes shone. 'You and me and five pounds of sugar, darlin'. Once this is all over, of course.'

'Soon this whole damn thing will be over,' he said. Alfred's eyes fluttered, and he gently wiped blood from a stinging cut above Arthur's eye.

'The war or…'

'All of it.'

His head tipped sideways, and the light of the city danced across his face. 'Artie.'

Arthur meant to reprimand him, but somewhere between the words he ended up kissing him again. The dread of the future couldn't hold up against this glorious warmth.

'I want to be with you,' he said, throat growing thick. 'When it's all over. Somewhere safe.'

'When will they say it's over?' Alfred asked, breath catching against his neck. 'You told me I could destroy this place. When will it be enough to be able to kill so many like that? When will we be allowed to put down our guns?'

'I don't know,' Arthur admitted, and then, softly. 'I don't want to go to war.'

'I'll be your hero,' he offered, voice cracking across his own fear and fondness and his sheer bravery. 'Until it's over. Until all of it, not just the war, is done.'

'Of course,' Arthur promised. The weight of the war hung over them. When the countries said it was over then and only then could they begin to breathe again, but for them, they would still have more beyond that.

Alfred's hand was warm in his. His eyes reflected the light, and he smiled hopeful and glowing and exultant. Arthur believed he could change the world with his bare hands and the heart he could hear thudding in his chest.

'Mad Americans,' he said. Alfred just smiled, almost embarrassed.

'Don't tell anyone, but I think I'm scared of what war would be like now.' He blinked and pulled back, ears red. 'The hero isn't really supposed to be scared.'

'Lucky I prefer kissing Alfred F. Jones instead, isn't it?' Arthur said, and pulled him back in.

 **0o0o0o**

 _ **:: Spinning holding sparklers as fireworks go off**_


	7. Chapter 7

Alfred's body breathed next to his in the backseat, head resting over his thrumming heart, limbs tangled with his, nothing but electric nerve endings and goodness.

'I found a piece of poetry for you.'

'Do tell.'

''These terrible delights have terrible ends, and in their triumph die'. Isn't it?'

'Shakespeare.' Arthur laughed and kissed his cheek. 'Not quite, though. I should have expected that from a Yankee.'

Alfred held their gaze for a heartbeat, a half, and looked away, smiling. 'I can quote him wrong,' he said, and his smile tipped up one side of his mouth. 'Can't I? He's long gone.'

'How would you like it if someone twisted your words a thousand years in the future?' Arthur asked him, and saw that flicker of fear that there would be nobody to quote anything. But it passed- this whole thing would pass, and they would still be together.

'Arthur, what could I say that is worth quoting?' Their foreheads rested together. 'Except _ti_ _amo_.'

'What does that mean again?'

'I learned it from an artist,' he said. 'I've been practicing. It's better said like this. _I_ _love_ _you_.'

His heart caught in his chest. Alfred smiled as shyly as he'd ever seen it, waiting and offering.

'I love you too.'

Alfred's smile widened, and he kissed him like he'd been waiting to for ages. He traced a finger up his face and pointed back to the West. From here, there was no war or pain, only a glowing, living city.

'Look at that,' he breathed. Above the buildings, the hints of night were coming. He tucked himself closer and gently covered his mouth. Arthur resisted the urge to kiss his calloused soft fingertips. His breathing came quick as he faces up into the sky.

'Shh, quiet. Listen. Do you hear it?'

Arthur wanted to say _yes_ _I hear_ _it_ if only to make Alfred's eyes light up with that wonder and admiration he'd found he was in love with, but all he could hear was his heartbeat and his own, thudding together like thunder and the sound he used to think a falling star would make when it hit the ground- _bam_ _bam_ _bam_ , like the sound effects in comics. But he'd found out that heroes do not exist except in brave people and falling stars don't always hit the ground. He strained, but there was nothing to hear but their hearts.

'Well?'

'I hear our hearts,' he said, and waited for that look of almost disappointment over how he isn't as good, isn't wed to the constellations and doesn't sit on Cassiopeia's starry throne.

But it didn't happen because instead Alfred pulled him over until the wool of his jacket tickled their faces and kissed him and said _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes_.

 _Look_ at him, Arthur thought, dizzy, star-painted, laughing and breathless underneath the lights. This was where he truly belonged, stained with only the reminders of war. This was what he lived for, what they lived for, and he loved Alfred more than anything.

They stayed there for hours until Arthur drove them back. Alfred laid back in the passenger seat, the curve of his throat dripping down with silvery light, eyelashes fluttering.

'Never thought I'd want to spent more time in the East,' he murmured. Arthur understood. Back in the West awaited the music of their military jobs and the consequences of their human lives. He slowed down near one of the old autobahn stops and listened to the muted sounds of a half city.

'Are you scared of what's going to happen to us when we go back?'

'I'm the hero,' he said, one brilliant eye cracking open. His smile made the bruises under Arthur's collar tingle. 'I'd go up against the whole damn West if you wanted me to.'

'That's Soviet talk. You're too American.'

''Course I am. But I'm yours, too. A country isn't always completely right.' The city echoed around them, and his expression turned serious and soft. 'Do you want me to?'

'Don't be...stupid.' He gripped the wheel, breath catching with the devotion. 'You Americans and your need to change the whole world. Always wanting to be the heroes.'

'That's not such a bad thing, Artie.'

'I know,' he said, surprising himself. Alfred laid his hand over his on the leather wheel, thumb brushing over the knuckles in a way that made him shiver, and held them together between the seats.

'It's not so hard,' he said. 'I stay by you and you stay by me even though it's dangerous. Isn't that worth something?'

This small act of resistance, their hands wound together, felt better than years of drill. 'You're worth it.'

The streets passed in a blur. The only real thing was them, here, and a half-remembered note Arthur regretted.

'Alfred,' he said, breaking their silence.

'Yeah?'

He focused on the road, unwilling to see the expression he knew came with his enthusiasm. 'I will...I'm going on leave soon. I made a mistake.' He ducked into his collar, embarrassed and furious. 'You know the morning after I came to your rooms? I thought you'd be…' He couldn't finish.

'Oh.' His thumb stilled and Arthur stared ahead, sure he'd messed up yet again. Instead, lips brushed the knuckles of his hand. Arthur looked over at him just as his eyes caught the spilling sunset and flashed like Apollo.

'Are you…' The words died on his tongue as he _stared_.

'I love you,' he said simply. Arthur could look at him forever, his smile and eyes and the feel of his mouth, but instead he grabbed the collar of his jacket and kissed him.

'Love you too,' he said. 'For longer than you'd know.'

Alfred laughed, just for them, lighting up and beautiful. He looked terribly pleased with himself, eyebrows crooked up and mouth pressed into a line to stop a delighted smile. Arthur couldn't resist, and under the guise of fixing his collar, leaned over to kiss his neck again. Alfred's free hand stroked his cheek as he made to pull away and brought him closer again, whispering like a secret into his hair.

'How long do I have you, darling?'

'As long as you want me,' Arthur responded. He could feel a smile responding. 'A couple months for now.'

His smile lit up the whole city, it felt. 'You had everyone to choose from and you still want me. We're still alive and laughing in a cold world and _that_ is worth something.'

0o0o0o

Alfred was grinning and dizzy after he put the car back. He sat outside the gallery for a moment, humming a half-remembered Elvis song. He laid out on the warm sidewalk for a long time until he was interrupted by scraping shoes on pavement and Matthew stumbled to a stop in front of him.

'Alfred, you fucking idiot,' he spat, as angry as he'd ever seen him, even when they'd gone to the hockey game together.

'Matt? What happened?'

'You did.' He groaned and raked a hand through his forelock, making an odd curl stand up. 'You...you can't see Arthur anymore.'

'What?' Alfred stood up so fast he scraped his palms, anger roiling under his ribs. 'Matt, what goddamn _right_ do you have-'

'Don't get angry with _me_ ,' Matthew snarled. He straightened up and raised his chin, making Alfred aware again of his friend's broad-shouldered muscle and height, just an inch over him. 'You fought some men in a bar.'

'They were saying what they shouldn't have.'

'I know. Believe me.' Matthew looked sleepless and stressed, pale eyes sunken. 'They reported you, Alfie.'

The word and the nickname thudded into his stomach, cold as iron. Matthew looked somber.

'You need to go back to base.'

'No,' he said automatically, mind jumping to some mad plan to take his bomber and Arthur and fly somewhere far away. Matthew's hand closed around his upper arm, pulling him back to reality.

'I'm sorry.'

He jerked his arm away. He didn't mean to be rough, but all he could do was think that an hour before he'd been kissing promises into Arthur's skin in the backseat.

'Does Arthur know?' His voice sounded hollow. Matthew's expression flashed raw with pain, and he turned away.

'He will.'

Alfred wished he hadn't asked, hadn't been so open and free with his heart, even though it felt like the only way he could be.

0o0o0o

Jett came to tell him one grey morning.

'They reported your pilot,' he said somberly between the practiced motions of filling a drink at the communal when nobody else was close enough to see or hear. Arthur's heart went cold and his plate slipped in his hands. Kiwi caught it and set it on the table.

'I'm sorry.'

'The men.' His heart was thudding like a clockwork monster in his chest. 'The men who-'

'Arthur.' Jett looked exhausted. 'Stop.'

'No!' Tears sting his eyes. He wanted to break something, wanted to rage and hurt someone and scream. It was his fault, all his fault. 'Alfred- _my Alfred_ , goddamnit, they-'

'Arthur Kirkland, if you don't calm down, we're going to leave,' Kiwi said. He set a hand on his arm. 'We've gone this long without a jail rap because we know what to do. What not to show. Alfred isn't like that.'

'Go to hell.'

'We don't mean it like that. We're going to help.' Jett glanced at the New Zealander. 'Please. Listen to us. People saw that Thunderbird in the East when you ran off. The guards saw it, too.'

'What are you saying?'

Jett leveled him with an even stare. 'We have a plan. Alfred will be safe if he doesn't act the bloody hero during your trial.'

'And for me?' He already knew the answer, but it was a weight lifting off his chest. Alfred. Alfred could be safe for his stupid, open hearted mistakes.

'You were going on leave anyways, weren't you?' Jett half-smiled. 'We went to the trouble of finding the guard who was around when you crossed. Do you know anything about an officer Ludwig Beilschmidt?'

Arthur felt himself smile, a ragged, bitter, hungry thing. 'As a matter of fact, I do.'

0o0o0o

He wished he'd taken it better, but he couldn't. Or wouldn't, just like it was impossible to stop being in love. He stayed in his room save for drill and wandered the streets, getting drunk on anything but bourbon, trying to stop dreaming of a few sunlit weeks. Arthur's hair had smelled like rain and old books and Alfred laid on his bed and read the poems until the paper was soft as velvet in his hands. He'd write him poetry if he knew how to make his thoughts work. He'd make him a world if he knew how to forge it out of sparrow bones and heartstrings. But in the end, he was only Alfred F. Jones, dreaming pilot, and it was his fault Arthur was gone.

He stayed at base with his plane often now, running his palms over the smooth silver body, imagining the huge roar of the engines rattling through his bones. He had kept away from Arthur, even though it left a huge empty space inside of him. When the footsteps approached behind him, he closed his eyes and pressed a palm flat against the wing and held onto the folded poems in his pocket, some distant part of him still crooning forgotten songs.

'Jones.' He could hear the detached distaste and regret there. 'Please come with us.'

The men walking alongside him weren't familiar. They walked with a stiff precision around the severe cuts of their uniforms. German uniforms. Alfred looked between the few escorting him, lip curling, until he met the gaze of the one by his side and nearly stopped dead. He'd know those sharp blue eyes anywhere.

Ludwig minutely shook his head at him and looked back to front, posture perfect. Alfred followed mutely, anger metallic in his teeth. The headquarters building looked in front of him, and the knotted fear and resent finally solidified into determination. They could court-martial him, but he'd never take back what he felt.

They escorted him into entered the first small room and quietly instructed him to sit down. Alfred sat down with a clatter, relishing the glare of irritation he received.

'Do you know why we've called you in, Jones?'

Behind the man, Ludwig shook his head again, a slight movement he barely caught. Alfred stopped with a defiant affirmation waiting on his tongue and with an effort bit it back. He didn't know Ludwig, not completely, but he trusted him more than anyone else in the room.

'No.'

'No?' His commander's eyebrows shot up into his hair. 'You don't think getting escorted by a set of the German military warrants respect?'

'With all _due_ respect, sir.' He flashed a grin, acutely aware of Ludwig watching. 'I really don't know why you've brought me in today.'

'Does the name Arthur Kirkland sound familiar to you?' He slid a file across the table and Alfred picked it up with a tingle of excitement. Arthur looked less than enthusiastic to have his picture taken, green eyes glittering and irritated and beautiful. He scanned the information, feeling oddly light to be holding a record of a life. Still, it wasn't everything. Their kind of love wasn't written down.

He dropped the file and slid it back across. This, he couldn't deny, and he wouldn't want to. His love felt like it was written all across his skin, constellations of promise on a wide sky.

'We're drinking partners.'

'Partners.'

The click of the man's fingernails on the polished counter was too loud in the quiet room. Alfred met his gaze evenly, playing it second by second. He wanted to be loud and defiant, but he couldn't. This was for Arthur.

'Is that all?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Do you have any memory of excursions with Kirkland?'

Ludwig shook his head minutely again, eyes fixed on the wall behind him. Alfred didn't hesitate when he answered, but a sick weight grew in his stomach.

'No, sir. Not beyond a few bars.'

'Jones.' He leaned forward, dark eyes enlivened. 'You're a damn fantastic pilot, you know. I don't want to lose you. A smart kid, all-American born and raised. A smart man who knows the rules.'

His throat was thick, but he forced the words through. He would not falter. He would be a hero, here in this concrete cell, away from everything worth living for.

'I hope I am like that, sir.'

'Five-year-jokes. Have you heard that term before about what the people of this city do when they think nobody sees? Three years for the man who tells the joke and two for whoever laughs. It's a common punishment for other _unseen_ things as well.' The man turned his pen over and over, staring through the file, into a different space. 'Jones, I am confident you'll fly our Berlin brigade again, once this...misunderstanding is all done with. Don't let me down.'

 _The curve of Arthur's mouth and the sounds he'd made when Alfred kissed him, a king of rain and starlight, beautiful as a constellation-_

The world wavered. _Isn't that worth something,_ their defiance, their love, all held there in the cusp of his words. Alfred closed his eyes, hating every inch of what had brought them here, guilty and drained and so, so tired.

'Yes, sir.'

 **0o0o0o**

 ** _:: Counting meteors_**


	8. Chapter 8

The soldiers were dismissed and his commander left and Alfred almost relaxed until he noticed Ludwig had stayed. Something was fluttering around his echoing empty head, something about him being a _witness_ , but before he could even get the question out, the man turned on him.

'Listen to me,' he said, brusque as if it was only another duty. 'You never went to the East with Arthur. You don't know him like you do.'

They were making him lie.

'But-' But he _couldn't_ , it would be easier to ask him to forget his own name.

Ludwig cut him off again, steely cornflower eyes flashing like an eagle.

'Don't _argue_ with me, Jones,' he ordered, but Alfred had long since stopped caring about anything except Arthur.

'They'll throw him in jail, they're going to- they'll court-martial _my Arthur_ -' His Arthur, all his brilliance and hidden humour and their promises of a life of stargazing and poetry. He could not lose him, or his whole world would collapse in and burn like this city or an atom bomb.

'Unless you want to be jailed with him, you won't act stupid.'

'I do!' Alfred whispered, voice cracking, feeling so young and stupid and _useless_ , empty and so terribly alone. 'I love him.'

Ludwig paused, and his perfect expression didn't soften, but there was an echo of empathy there. 'I know you do. Believe me.' He moved like he meant to reach out for him, but reconsidered. 'I'm sorry.'

It wasn't enough. Alfred closed his eyes and held onto the poems in his pocket, wishing and praying that he had done something, anything better.

'I love him,' he said again. It wasn't enough to convey how much Arthur meant to him, the space of sunlight and rain he'd carved out inside his chest, as vital as his heart. It would never, ever be enough.

He wiped away his tears and let go of the poems. He would be strong. If this was what Arthur wanted, if this could _save them_ , he'd do anything and everything. He was Alfred fucking _Jones_ , the hero, Arthur's hero, so surely, surely he could win his way through this one trial?

The doors swung open and he walked to his seat. Arthur was already sitting there, green eyes glowing with distaste and pride as he looked out at the audience. Alfred felt like he could fall in love with him all over again. He wanted to run to him and just be _close_ in every way to his heartbeat and his voice, kiss the pale scattering of freckles on his forearms.

He couldn't. He sat down and tried to breathe in a room that felt more liquid than gas. Arthur saw him, and the dispassionate expression fell away for just a heartbeat into something adoring and gentle. _I love you_ , it said, _and I always will_. There was an apology there, but Alfred couldn't care. He only wanted to convey everything back in that glance, how much he loved him, how sorry he was for all of it.

The judge stepped up to speak and Alfred turned to him, steadying his breathing. This couldn't be that much harder than becoming a bomber pilot.

'The accused, infantryman Arthur Kirkland, is here on charges of gross indecency inconsistent with the values of the British Army. How does the defendant plead?'

Arthur's hands tightened into fists for only a second. He raised his chin. Alfred _loved him_.

'Guilty,' he said into the ringing quiet, and Alfred's heart jerked to a stuttering, painful stop, a breath not taken.

 _No_.

No. This couldn't be happening. They were going to win, and it would still be their secret spoken in poetry and whispers and _everything_ was supposed to turn out okay. Everything finally made sense and Alfred could scream and curse himself for being such an idiot. _I'm sorry, love_ , he'd tried to say. Murmurs built through the room and Alfred dropped his head to his chest and stopped thinking of anything at all.

'Is it true the defendant has had relations with another man?'

'Yes,' Arthur said. He could hear the sneer in his voice.

'Was this man in a military position?'

'No, your honour.'

Some of the buzzing tension quieted. 'On Sunday defendant was seen exiting a bar with another soldier. First lieutenant Alfred Foster Jones, from the American Air Force.'

Alfred raised his head and forced himself to speak evenly, to be careful for the first time. He would not betray them both with a trembling voice. He would play the part, yes, he would work in this terrible engine, but he could never forgive himself for it.

'You are the lieutenant?'

'Yes, your honor.' He was so, so tired.

'So young to be a lieutenant,' the judge mused. 'What happened on that Sunday?'

'I left the bar with Kirkland and followed him to a different bar. After a few drinks, he left.'

'What is your relationship to the defendant?'

 _He's mine and I'm his and I love him and his laugh and I could drown in the exact shade of his eyes and every time he kisses me I feel like I'm a constellation_.

'We're drinking partners.'

'Why didn't you follow him when he left for the East?'

'I wanted to keep drinking. I'm not interested in what he does other than that.'

'Do you know where he goes?'

'I don't,' Alfred said. His palms burned where he was digging his fingernails into them, and he thought he might bleed soon. The judge studied him dispassionately, obviously more interested in Arthur.

'Later that Sunday, the accused entered the East driving a distinct 1955 Thunderbird car. Does this car belong to you, Jones?'

'No. I borrow it. I told Arthur how to borrow it.'

Satisfied, the judge motioned towards the side.

'The officer on duty at the time has been called as a witness.'

He heard Ludwig stand and his flat, deep voice, but he couldn't look at him.

'You have the later shift on Sundays?'

'I was the officer on duty that night. I recorded the Thunderbird entering the East at eight-forty and leaving at eleven. Both times, only the British soldier, Kirkland, was in the car.'

Alfred wanted to hate them all for this great plan to accuse Arthur of something that was just as much his fault if not more, but he couldn't. It was never something that anyone should have to be accused of. It was not a _crime_.

He wished, desperately, that things were different and instead they could save Arthur. He was willing to give everything he'd lived for up. He wouldn't be able to love his shining silver bird again knowing Arthur wouldn't be waiting for him when he dismounted. He couldn't love the way his jacket looked as much without also knowing how it looked around Arthur's shoulders and against his sand-soft hair.

'We deem the charge against infantryman Arthur Kirkland for gross indecency to be true. The verdict is guilty.'

The room roared. Alfred hurt, horribly, in a deep and aching way he didn't know was possible, a huge hopeless emptiness inside that swallowed him whole. He curled into himself and didn't think of anything except apologies that were far too late. He gave up.

 _Arthur, my darling, my love, I'm so sorry_.

Somewhere in the haze, a hand gently brushed his shoulder. Alfred didn't have the energy to push them away.

'I'm sorry,' the Australian rasped. Alfred didn't move, but he let go.

'That's not good enough,' he murmured. Jett nodded and respectfully backed away. Alfred hadn't want to hurt him. He hadn't meant for any of it, and he was utterly exhausted.

'It's time to go, Jett,' a voice said, and the calming presence left.

Another hand grasped his shoulder.

'Good man,' his commander said, obviously proud. 'How are you holding up, Jones? I truly am sorry they accused you of such a thing. I mean, how could they think you were like _him?'_

Alfred hated his touch, _hated_ the way he spoke about Arthur. He swallowed it back.

'I'll be fine, sir,' he said. 'I'm just going to go lie down.'

'Take today off,' his commander advised. 'It's okay if you're shaken up. Must have been quite the event.'

Alfred walked away, dizzy and nauseous, closing his eyes against the bright lights and stares. He saw Jett outside, turning down the street and rushed to grab his arm, trying to steady himself before he collapsed.

'Arthur,' he begged. 'Please, I have to see him, where are they keeping him?'

'Only house arrest for now, but you can't go up to his rooms,' Jett said. 'You can't risk this now, not when we've been able to fix this-'

' _I don't care_ ,' Alfred snarled, and suddenly all his anger burst out of him and he slammed Jett back against the wall, forgetting to be quiet, forgetting the man won more street fights than anyone, forgetting everything except the great lonely space inside of him where green eyes used to be. 'I don't _care!_ You call this fixing something? You call ruining something beautiful like this _fixing_ it? Blaming Arthur for something that's all my fault, all my fucking fault every since I met him?' He was shaking down to nothing, the world blurring through tears, every part of him torn out and leaving only a shell. 'Nobody told me about this! Nobody! I wish you had, so I could have taken his place, his punishment, anything for him, always. I would give the _world_ for him, you don't understand.'

He shoved him back again and raised a hand to strike, but the sobs broke and he crumpled to the ground, kneeling in the filthy cigarette-ash streets of Berlin and waiting for the world to crash down as he _screamed_. His chest was fire and his head was smoke and everything in between was nothing but memory.

'I understand,' Jett said, sounding just as tired as he was. 'I know.'

'No,' Alfred choked out, but his anger was gone now, leaving only guilt and shame. He curled up, arms wrapped around his knees, face buried in his jacket, chasing the smell of rain and old books and tea. 'I want Arthur.'

'I'll get word to him soon. I promise.' Jett pulled him back up and straightened his collar, practiced and efficient. It wasn't the first time this had happened, Alfred could tell.

'I'm sorry,' he said as Jett examined his jacket cuffs.

'You don't need to say that,' he murmured. 'Your sort never mean it.'

'Thank you for...helping.'

'I wish Kiwi and me could have done more.' He raked a hand through his dark hair. His eyes were heavily shadowed. Alfred gripped his shoulder, anxious to impress how much he did appreciate it. He felt drained, but he could at least do this.

'Really. Thank you, Jett.'

He grinned tiredly but still broad, the weak sunlight glinting off the flick of his head. 'It's what I do.' He gently nudged his shoulder. 'It's time to go. Let them see that you're back at base for tonight.'

Alfred staggered back to base, ignoring the stares, and collapsed into bed. He read the poems by moonlight and dreamed of Arthur, just Arthur, the way his skin felt and the way he smiled. He trusted, even if it was stupid, that things would be better some day, but he didn't know if he would be able to fight for it like he'd promised.

0o0o0o

Arthur laid in his rooms or paced or tried to think of anything other than the now. They'd put him on house arrest, but that wouldn't be all. _Wish we were still allowed to give death penalty to people like you_ , someone had hissed. He didn't think about it. What he did think about was what he knew was coming. Expulsion from the military, loss of his future, loss of _Alfred_. His Alfred, who'd looked so terribly broken during the trial in a way he should never look. Dead and empty and still. That- that was the part that hurt most, the part that made him need something to heal the hurt inside.

Alfred. _Alfred_ , shining golden, brave and brash and beautiful. Arthur heard about him in the rumours as the guards dropped off his food, and he clung to those scraps.

The empty space in his arms where Alfred fit was why he opened the beer the army sent with the rations and didn't touch the rest. It helped him, it made him stop thinking. It made the memory of warmth fade until everything was metallic and cold like he deserved. God, he was an idiot to think he could have something as good as Alfred without ruining it. The only real solace was that Alfred was safe.

Sometimes he dreamed of blue sky eyes and what Alfred would say if he saw how many bottles were piled up on the counter, but Arthur didn't think of that, either.

Some time in the haze, someone knocked on the door. It wasn't like the guards, and he should have been glad, but the beer flattened everything into exhaustion and the feeling of being filthy and undeserving. He stared at it, willing himself out of the chair, and finally stumbled over.

Francis stood there. Arthur couldn't even muster proper anger, only tired distaste.

'Oh. It's you, frog. It's just been the captains at my door for hours. Still, I thought you might have been…'

He didn't want to admit he'd thought it was Alfred. He'd done enough harm already. He wouldn't see him again. That thought hurt, too.

'Where is Alfred?' Francis asked. Arthur grimaced, a new lance of pain jolting through him. His hand twitched for a bottle to muffle it, but they were back inside the room.

'The commanders won't let him go. They're dealing with his image or something, and I understand, but…'

But he missed him like sunlight. Francis moved closer and he scowled again, more at himself than the other man.

'Can we talk?'

'I don't need to be caught with another man in my rooms.' He let him in regardless.

He sat back down in his chair. The open window made him cough, but the new light gleamed through the amber bottles on his table.

'I heard about your trial.'

'And I'm sure you've seen all the lies they say about it.' He didn't want to think about what was being said about him, but it made his lip curl. He reached for the bottles again, but Francis suddenly grabbed them and tossed them into the sink, sweeping up bottles from every surface he could find. Arthur dimly realized how many there were.

'I need those,' he muttered. An itching fear of the dark pain had started at his fingertips. The alcohol made it into a grey he could manage.

'No, you don't. What would Alfred think of you?'

Arthur saw red suddenly. His ragged emotions reared up and he pushed himself up from his chair to grab him.

'Don't you dare. You have no right to tell me that, not when I'm a week from losing the only good thing I've ever known.'

The choking reality of that swelled inside of him, but this time, there was nothing stopping it from sweeping him up like a storm and breaking him. It was wrong, but he struck out. His knuckles connecting felt good.

'I know. I know, Arthur.' Francis winced at the pain and Arthur let go again, disgusted with himself.

'What would you know?' His thoughts kept running circles. His voice wavered and tilted like a broken-winged bird. He wanted Alfred but he wasn't worth him. 'Here's something you should know. Here's something everyone should know. I lied. We both lied to save him and I don't regret it at all.'

'You love him.'

That was the truth of it, in the end. That was what led them here.

'Of course I do. I love him so much, that's why I agreed to this.' He gestured at the alcohol-soaked air and the whole pointlessly cruel process of his crime. 'Anything, anything is worth his happiness. I'd give everything for him, but for this, it'll never be enough.'

He'd never been as good or brave as him, really, his Alfred, but he'd sang for him and shown him stars and promised to be his hero and that, that was worth something. Arthur fell back into his chair and laughed at the world and his own stupidity.

'God, Francis. I love him. I love a bloody American, and a pilot to boot, who's the most aggravating, incredible, frustrating, _beautiful_ person in the whole world.' He let himself think of their nights and feel every fluttering heartbeat and caught breath of love. 'He taught me how to stargaze, you know. I had hoped that after this was all over we could…I guess it doesn't matter anymore, but I was hoping to get that poetry book I pawned back for him.'

'He sounds good for you.'

'He deserves better than I can give,' Arthur corrected. But he'd give himself regardless of it.

He cleaned up the room after he left, mulling over thoughts about Francis' Canadian he'd spoken about until someone else knocked on the door. He opened it and blinked in surprise at Jett, who was carrying one end of his box of supplies. They didn't speak, but as Jett left, he lingered just long enough fixing his uniform in the mirror by the door to drop a note. The door shut and Arthur picked it up eagerly.

 _We'll cover for you. Tomorrow, nine forty is when the change in guard happens. Go find your American_.

It was signed with a tiny bird and what looked like a plane. Arthur reread it, finally able to breathe again. He could go see Alfred one last time.

0o0o0o

The halls were empty at half past nine. Arthur knew everyone must be going to supper, and waited until he saw two familiar figures through his window changing for guard. He smiled.

Jett and Kiwi nodded as he hurried out, heart pounding. Kiwi lazily saluted.

'We've got you a few hours,' he said. His eyes were light green, Arthur noticed, and they sparkled as he looked at Jett.

'Thank you,' Arthur said honestly, and hurried out. He kept his head up and the faraway guards didn't notice.

He ran to the art gallery, hoping and hoping, heart pounding. He rounded the corner and saw Alfred, his Alfred laying on the hood, golden body stretched out, gazing up at the sky. His throat was too thick to call out, and he just ran for him, wrapping arms around his warm, solid, perfect body and pressing them together, gasping out his name and finally feeling whole again. Alfred held on in shock until his grip tightened and he buried his face in his neck, voice shattering into worship, _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, darling dear._

'You came,' he said, almost in disbelief.

'Of course I did. You know I had to, always, anything for you.'

Alfred traced his face and Arthur floated in the touch. His hands were broad and warm as they pulled him closer and whispered into his hair.

'I'm so sorry,' he choked. The warmth fell away. Alfred looked at him with shining, terrified eyes. 'I wanted to save you, I wish I could have taken your place, I wish I didn't have to lie. Why did it have to be you? Did you choose that way?'

And Arthur realized suddenly that he hadn't _known_.

'You didn't- nobody told you about it?' he asked in mounting horror. Alfred blinked tears from his lashes and shook his head. Arthur drew him close and kissed him everywhere, cheeks and eyelids and forehead and mouth. 'Oh, Alfred, love. I'm the one who should be sorry.'

'They didn't say until I was outside the room,' Alfred said. Arthur felt his shoulders shake and kissed his temple.

'It's okay. It's okay, I promise, everything is okay now.'

'It's _not_ ,' he insisted. 'What's going to happen to you?'

 _I_ _am_ _worth_ _so_ _much_ _less_ _than_ _you_ , Arthur wanted to say. He looked away. 'They'll dishonourably discharge me.'

'No,' he said, sounding panicked.

'Military was never really my calling,' Arthur half-joked. Alfred stilled momentarily.

'What would you want to do?'

Arthur hadn't thought about it in years. 'Writing, perhaps? It doesn't matter. Not with that discharge on my record.' The future was hollow and painful to think of, but a hint less so with Alfred by him.

'I want to fix that,' Alfred said. 'I want to fix everything and make the world somewhere where that sort of trial never happens.'

Arthur sighed, impossibly fond of him and his hope. 'You Americans. Always wanting to be the heroes.'

'You say that like it's a bad thing.' For a second, his Alfred was back in a cocky flash of smile, but the days still hung over them. 'I want to be with you. I want to change the world with you. Have you heard of the space program?' His eyes glowed with excitement. 'We can change the world, Artie. I think that's worth something.'

Everyone must be taken breathless by Alfred at some point or another, Arthur thought, awestruck by his beautiful American.

'The world won't be that easy. It won't be perfect, either.'

'I'm not looking for perfect.' He brushed his hair from his face. 'But this is pretty close to it. We're gonna get pretty damn close to it, some day.'

'Do all Americans think themselves invincible, or just you?' Arthur teased, sinking into this familiar, _perfect_ rhythm.

'It's only when I'm around you,' Alfred said earnestly, golden blue like stars and atmosphere. Arthur stared instead of answering and Alfred's smile changed. 'Oh, Arthur. Can I?'

'Anything you want,' he said, and kissed him, and the world fell back into place.

 **0o0o0o**

 ** _:: Blue evening with glowing violet notes_**


	9. Chapter 9

One of Alfred's hands slid under his collar as they kissed, hesitant like someone who was still figuring out what was _allowed_ and what wasn't, mapping out muscles and the places his spine curved. Kissing him had made the world right itself, but now there was an edge of guilt in it. Arthur hated that the trial had even ruined this, and tried to push through it. They slid Arthur's army jacket off and threw it into the backseat, hungering for every part of the other that they hadn't had the time to explore. This would be their last time, now or never, but they were both ragged and raw with new pains.

'I miss you so much,' Alfred whispered softly. 'Every time you go.'

'I miss you too, love.'

Alfred found his dog tags, and they clicked against themselves in his fingers. Arthur let him unclip the chain and stare at the worn letters. They didn't say much, not nearly enough about everything that Alfred did to him.

'These won't be worth much soon,' he said, closing a fist around Alfred's hand and the metal. 'Think I should throw them away?'

He shook his head, still pale. 'You'll get in trouble.'

'How much more trouble could I possibly be in?' Nevertheless, Arthur slid them back into his pocket, toying with the chain in morbid amusement. 'Maybe I will become a writer back home. Take up a pseudonym. It's the only job that'll take me.'

'Don't talk like that. We can fix it,' he insisted. His eyes caught the light, wide and desperate with mad hope. 'I could say that it was all my fault-'

'Don't you dare.'

'It was.'

It was, if Arthur thought about it, his fault for being so beautiful and bright and shining, pushing him to try bourbon and music and _love_ like they were young gods. But it was not a crime. He wouldn't let it be.

' _No_ , Alfred. I'm not letting that happen to you.'

'I could-'

'You're not _invincible_!' he shouted, eyes prickling with heat. 'Not in this way, no matter how much you feel like you are.'

It would have been easier if he'd shouted back, but all he could see was a quiet acceptance in those brave skyline eyes. He knew Alfred, how he loved in promises and loud declarations, and what taking this away must feel like to him. He knew, and he hurt all the more for it.

'I can't,' he repeated, forcing himself away from his warm arms. He wanted to still be kissing him, but everything felt wrong again. The trial had changed this into something fearful and dirty. 'I won't let you get hurt.'

'I'm too far gone for that already,' he said, without a trace of his usual humour. Nineteen years old and used to watching the world fall down and not get back up.

His Alfred, too brave for his own good, heart made of stardust and constellations caught for a glorious moment in glass. Look away for a second and he'd fall like a comet, tear himself free, always longing for more and more and more, glad to be burning up.

Arthur abruptly broke away. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. The trial had done _something_ , dirtied a piece of him the army hadn't been able to reach, the part Alfred brought out of him.

'I hate this,' Arthur said, and then louder, sickened with how much they couldn't change now, how many people had already been hurt, how many more would be before it was all over. 'I _hate_ this, Alfred!'

He nodded, eyes gleaming wet, and that silence broke the fragile barrier in his chest holding back all his fears of nuclear war and shining silver bombers and the want and love and pain for beautiful American boys who held the controls. He trusted Alfred completely. He wouldn't pull the trigger, but someone else would.

Alfred had a way of making him _feel_ the world in high definition like he never had before, and he was terribly, painfully aware of the possibility of nuclear war, and how many innocent people would be paying the price for their decisions.

'Because we're never going to have world peace. We're all too passionate and stupid to ever achieve peace for even a _second_ \- we're reckless and careless bastards and we're all going to bomb each other into dust one day, aren't we?'

'Arthur-'

'And you!' Arthur framed Alfred's face with his hands, trying to capture that horrible, brash, ignorant expression, but it kept shifting into sadness, heartbreaking and tender. His love gathered hot and choking in his throat, pushing him to lean forward until their foreheads were pressed together, their shared breaths and heartbeats tangling and pulling him apart to nerve endings lit up electric. 'You're the bloody _example_. You're loud and reckless and- and you don't care about what anyone else has to say. You can't take a hint to save your life. You're going to change the whole _world_ , Alfred, and you're my hero.' He held onto him tighter, shuddering with tears, kissing the promises from his mouth. 'You're my hero, Alfred. I love you.'

'I'll always be. As long as you need me.' He kissed his neck, young shoulders breaking down under the weights of the world. 'Always, darlin', I promise, I love you so much. I'm gonna make you so happy some day.'

This time when they kissed it was for all the days where they hadn't, desperate and clumsy. Alfred groaned, the end bitten back like he was ashamed of it. It made heat tingle in Arthur's fingertips.

'You already do.'

'Really?' He pressed their noses together, eyelashes tickling his cheek. He could hear the catch of tears in his throat. 'That's good, Artie. Really good.'

He looped arms around Alfred's shoulders to tug him closer and found his own dog tags. He would have stopped to admire them, but Alfred brushed them away.

'They're not important.' The metal caught the setting sunlight, the name printed there a familiar, warm shape. You really couldn't get a more American name, or one he loved more now.

'They're not.' He flicked the wool collar of his jacket. 'This, though? I think it suits you.'

'It suits you too.' He winked. 'Imagine if you'd been a RAF pilot like you told me. You'd have a matching one.'

'When did I tell you that?' Arthur asked fondly. 'And I'd have a better one.'

'When you were drunk.'

'Of course. I don't suppose I also told you I have a weakness for your eyes?'

'You like them?' he asked in delight.

'Keats would write poetry about them.' Every kiss they shared made the heat in his chest grow and purr. 'And that rockstar had a blue eye, you know. Bowie.'

'You didn't tell me then,' Alfred added. 'But I sure like where you're going with this now.'

'You would. I better be careful not to give you any more of an ego, love.' He kissed his forehead. 'You prideful, beautiful Americans.'

He chuckled and nuzzled in closer. 'You can keep going. I'd let you tell me those things anywhere. I want to show you the whole wide world.'

'What is it with you and your insatiable need for the world? Why do you _want_ everything so much?'

'I told you,' Alfred said, like it was the simplest thing. 'It's because you deserve everything.'

Arthur kissed him again. ' _Alfred_.'

'What? It's true. Been true ever since I met you. I saw you and I thought _he deserves to be shown everything this world has got to offer_. And I was right.'

'You're ridiculous,' he told him, adoring everything, kissing his nose and the dip of his throat and his mouth. 'I'd want to see the world with you. After all of this.'

'Isn't that what we've always been doing? Just kept promising to see each other again?'

'Promise me something now,' he challenged. 'Promise me there'll be no war. That you won't start one. You've got to stay here, love, and make sure of that. I want to be able to see you again, right here in Berlin, and know we haven't ruined it. It's the least we can do.'

He tipped his head, the hint of his usual broad smile finally coming back. 'I promise. You know I couldn't do it.'

'I know that.'

'I think…' He glanced sideways, ears red. 'I think I fell in love with this city.'

'You better not like it more than me.'

He finally laughed properly, that disastrous wonderful way that Arthur dreamed for, and it felt like the sun came back. 'Naw, you're my one and only, Artie. Don't worry.'

Arthur smiled, satisfied with that at least. Heat still spread across his neck at Alfred's grin, and he squeezed his hand.

'I want to remember tonight,' he said firmly. Alfred nodded sharply, once, and then as if by silent agreement they ducked into the front seat as Alfred threw the car into gear and started driving everywhere and nowhere. Somewhere further away. Somewhere for them.

Arthur's hands were fisted in his trousers as the car purred. His heart was pounding, and he was suddenly impossibly nervous. Alfred's profile was sunlit, and he suddenly couldn't voice any of his tangled emotions inside. He simply _wanted_ Alfred, all of him.

When they finally stopped, they both clambered through the car into the backseat in their urgency. Arthur tried to kick off his shoes to avoid scuffing the seats, but only managed to get one off before Alfred kissed him again.

'Alfred,' he gasped when they broke apart, clutching at his soft worn jacket, blood singing high. 'Are we going to…?'

'If you want to,' he said. The car windows were dimming with condensation, and in the half-light his features were glowing, soft with want and love and a hesitancy that had never fit him. 'Do you- would you want to? With me?'

'Well, do you see anyone else I would be doing it with?' Arthur teased, finally taking off his other shoe. His army jacket was still where they'd thrown it, and it was crumpled beneath his back, digging into his shoulder blades uncomfortably. He sat up, cupping his face and curling fingers through his soft goldenrod hair. The words still stuck in his throat with old fear, but he whispered them against Alfred's mouth. 'Yes. I want you.'

Alfred kissed him, lingering and sweet, and laid his bomber jacket underneath Arthur's back.

'Is that comfortable?' he questioned, his nervousness flashing through in every motion. It was soft leather, worn supple. Arthur knew his jacket as him, the feel and scent of bourbon and warmth. The jacket made him, but he was still young and so the hem brushed past his waist.

Arthur breathed in the leather and sunshine and admired every line of him. He was a perfect pilot, all shining like he did, but not tonight. Not tonight, Arthur thought with more than a note of pride. Tonight, Alfred was not a soldier. He was all his.

'It's good.'

Alfred's eyes were hazy, and he looked down at Arthur, hands ghosting reverently across his body. For a moment, all they did was touch, Arthur admiring the muscles in his shoulders and the curve of his hips. When Alfred bent down to kiss the dip of his shoulder, he could see the sheen of sweat, velvet across his collarbone. He should be embarrassed at himself, kissing in a car like a teenager, but he wasn't. He wanted Alfred, simply and endlessly.

'Take this off,' he murmured, and Alfred quickly removed his thin undershirt. His dog tags jangled against his bare chest, silver against gold, and Arthur followed. The first time they met skin on skin Alfred gasped brokenly, and Arthur would forget his own name to remember that sound. The windows were fogging up more, and Alfred fumbled in the front to roll back the convertible roof, just enough for the stars to show and gleam against him. It was a warm night.

'Want you,' Alfred breathed. Every sound was magnified inside the car, the whole sky open and waiting for them. 'Please. Can I?'

Arthur nodded, words lost. 'Do you have anything? Any cream, or…'

'There's a jar of it in the front.' Alfred reluctantly retreated to search for it, and finally came up with a small pot.

He laid him down with shaking hands, gazing at Arthur's body like it was worship to. When Arthur reached up to touch his face, he kissed the palm. His eyelashes were clumped with tears.

'I love you, Artie,' he said. His body arched over his, and Arthur spread his hands against the muscles of his chest, the ripple of his ribs.

'I love you too.' He held onto his shoulders as he was prepared. Alfred kissed him through it, constantly asking if it was too much, if it hurt. Arthur soothed him, heart utterly lost to this softhearted, brilliant boy. He was everything that makes the world beautiful, everything that made this time worth it.

'I'm ready,' he assured him. 'It's okay, love, you can do it.'

Alfred caught his gaze and kissed him, fierce and clumsy and wanting. He groaned, raw and finally, finally released, as they connected.

'Arthur,' he gasped. 'Oh, God, Arthur. I love you, I love you so much.'

Arthur could taste salt and Alfred and the night. All that existed was them and their love, and the way the stars sparkled through Alfred's hair like he was a prince of the constellations. Everywhere they touched sparked fireworks under Arthur's skin, and he told Alfred his love every way he knew, in poetry and in gasps and in those simple, wonderful words. _I_ _love_ _you_ , _I_ _love_ _you_.

The night spread out behind Alfred, dark against his gold and blue. Tears streaked down his face, and almost in surprise, Arthur reached up to brush them away, feeling wetness against his own cheeks.

'You're crying,' he said, shocked pleasantly that his voice was hoarse and so obviously adoring. Alfred shook his head, eyelashes sparkling with tears, smiling like sunlight and a life of better things.

'You feel so good,' he whispered. 'And I love you so much. Guess I can't help it.'

His Alfred truly seemed invincible with how he could lose himself and find it again in Arthur and art and Berlin, over and over. But nuclear war would break this, it would shatter him and there would be no way to heal him but Arthur had never seen anybody with more determination to put themselves back together. And what better place to do it than this city? Avant-garde, that was what ran through the streets now instead of blood. The making of something new. The healing after the wars.

'I love you,' Alfred said. He cupped his face, and his chest where his pulse thrummed, brushed a hand across the place at his nape where his kisses left marks. 'All of this. All of you. You mean so much to me.'

Arthur could only hold onto him. How would he ever be able to express everything he felt in this night? He loved him a million ways. He loved the way he had shown him stargazing, and the shade of his eyes, and the way he sounded when there was nothing but them together. He loved Alfred F. Jones more than he could ever say.

'When this is all over,' he said. 'I want to be with you.'

Alfred momentarily stilled. 'Artie? You mean…?'

'Yes. I want you. I want to stay with you. As long as you'll have me.' He swallowed the lump in his throat and kissed his hair. 'I love you.'

'I'd like that a lot,' he said softly. His smile curved up bright. 'I'd really like that, Artie.'

He could feel Alfred's pulse hammering against his skin. He didn't know what hearts were made of but it must be something truly wondrous to break and love again and again and again and so _deeply_. It was a wonderful thing, a miracle like stargazing and a boy made of comets and stardust and upper atmosphere. He wanted a thousand more nights lying under the stars with Alfred beside him and seeing themselves reflected there.

He felt Alfred's finish first, heard the ragged pleading groan of his name, mixed up with praise and endearments and promises like they'd been doing for so long. His joystick-worn hand curled around him and their mouths met, shaking and perfect. Arthur whispered his name as he tipped off the perfect edge, and, ridiculously, wonderfully, thought he could hear their hearts singing back to the universe.

They lay there in the afterglow, panting and utterly exhausted. Arthur gathered Alfred into his arms and breathed in the scent of his hair.

'You meant it?' Alfred whispered, too hoarse to be louder. His hand stroked through Arthur's sweaty hair. 'About wanting to be with me after this?'

'Of course.'

He felt his smile, the swell of happiness all throughout his body. 'I want to be with you, too.'

'This will be the last time we have to say goodbye like this,' Arthur promised.

'That sounds nice.' He nodded against his neck, smiling a private, wonderful smile. 'Really nice.'

Suddenly he stilled, and tilted his head skywards. Arthur gazed up with him, seeing only clouds blurring the stars.

'It's going to rain,' Alfred said. Arthur closed his eyes and breathed in, tasting only night and themselves.

'How do you know?'

'Wait and see.' He grinned.

They waited not more than a minute until the sky cracked open and the rain poured down, rolling down Alfred's body and pooling in the dips of his muscles, making his hair curl away from his skin. He laughed exuberantly and threw his arms open, welcoming it.

'Told you so,' he announced, sounding like he'd won a bet, impossibly proud of himself. 'It's a cloudburst. We get them back home. I can show you one day.'

He closed the roof before they could get too chilled, and wrapped them both in his jacket. Laying there in the warm Thunderbird car, twining fingers through his hair and with Alfred tracing patterns on his lower back, Arthur had never been happier. Soon he would have to go back, and they would send him back home, far away from Alfred and Berlin. But not yet. For now, the stars slid past outside the window, and the rain drummed on the roof, and he traced the water droplets rolling down Alfred's sunkissed chest.

'Bloody Americans,' he said fondly. Alfred just laughed and kissed him again.

 **0o0o0o**

 ** _:: Spinning holding sparklers as the sky explodes above you_**


	10. Chapter 10

They had to drive back. Arthur held onto the lingering traces of warmth as long as he could, but finally Alfred pulled away with a final kiss to his collarbone to clean them up as best as he could and start the car up again, driving through the puddles in the streets. The windshield wipers slashed through the rain, and their hands stayed knotted together between the seats.

'I think I finally know how to say it. About why I couldn't start a war,' Alfred said after a long time. 'Why nobody should.'

Arthur stirred as if rising from sleep. 'Tell me.'

Alfred was quiet for a time, eyelashes fluttering as he worked with the words. 'Imagine being on the ground,' he said after a long pause, slowly and deliberately. 'When I was training for this, they mentioned how long it takes to detonate after being dropped. How long someone would have to accept it's all over. It's...it's a little under a minute, I think.' His eyes shone with tears again. 'What would it be like in a city like this? Watching the planes fly away, staring up in the midst of people, knowing that you can't run. The people who pay for a war like this aren't soldiers. They're just people. People, watching for the end. People you can erase in a second, _millions_ of people, and everything they've ever known and done. All the architecture and music and painting and the waiting artists, the people in love, the people with no choices left, all gone. All destroyed, every trace of their pasts and future, because of one person, one choice.'

There was nothing to say to that. They held hands in the quiet and drove back to Arthur's base, holding on until the stars were nearly gone.

'I'm sorry,' Alfred said again, head tilted back against the seat, eyes shining with tears. 'I wish I could be your hero, Artie.'

'You'll always be.' He let Alfred rest his head against his shoulder. He dug into his jacket with his free hand and came up with their photograph from so long ago.

'I was meaning to give mine to you before you had to go,' he admitted. 'So you can- if you want to remember me.'

Arthur accepted, turning it over in his hands, tracing the lines of Alfred throwing his arms out and grinning. He still shone just as bright beside him, a supernova in a cloudburst. He carefully slid it into his shirt pocket over his heart.

'I'm always going to remember you,' he promised. 'Here, give me yours. I'll write you my address.'

Alfred's eyes widened, and Arthur glanced away, ears reddening. 'I don't mean that you need to write or- or visit. In fact, maybe you shouldn't write, they don't need another reason to-'

'I'm going to see you again,' Alfred promised, pressing his hand to his lips, still as young and bright and earnest as always. 'I said so, didn't I? I want to be with you once I'm finally out of here. Out of this forever. And I'll write as often as possible, through Mattie's letters or any way I can.'

'I'd like that,' Arthur murmured. He wrote his address and Alfred stared down at it, nodding.

'I only signed up for a year in Berlin,' he said, smiling like the breaking sun, voice wavering on love and tears. 'I'll meet you in the square in London, okay? August eighteenth. I promise. I'll take my bomber to get to you if I have to. I'll come home, home to you, and I'm gonna take you to the countryside to stargaze, and I'm going to buy you as much bourbon as you want.'

'I'll hold you to that, love,' Arthur murmured, half-choked. Alfred laughed and kissed his cheek and eyelids and mouth. 'Love you. I love you, Alfred.'

'I love you too,' he whispered. 'God, I love you so much. Too much, and that's okay, that's okay. That's just how I want it.'

Alfred was a hero to him. Alfred had shown him a love that would wait as long as it needed, that still sparked between their singing hearts. Arthur held him close and kissed him. Not like a goodbye, but like a promise to his beautiful sunlit pilot, who he'd found himself with a thousand ways in Berlin.

0o0o0o

They stripped him of his military uniform in the morning. Arthur was glad to be rid of it in a way. It felt like shedding four years of hiding himself. He gathered his few belongings and held his head high as he walked out onto the compound. In the distance he saw Jett and Kiwi watching him, and Jett raised his glass in a quiet salute.

They loaded him onto the plane headed back to London and Arthur gazed out the window, eyes fixed on the silver bombers until they vanished as well. From this height, bomber's height, he couldn't see the people, only the way the two halves of Berlin glittered different shades like a heart split down the middle. It was easier to forget about the people you could hurt from up here, but Alfred wouldn't.

He leaned back and touched the photograph over his heart with a smile, and started counting days until August. It was strange that within a few months, his military job could change from his only hope to something he was so relieved to be rid of. Up here, he could understand why Alfred shone like the upper atmosphere and pure sunshine. He was _free_ , and the future was open like it had never been before.

It _was_ the age of avant-garde, he supposed.

0o0o0o

The city of Berlin felt emptier without Arthur. Alfred checked his calendar and the empty space inside of him cracked wider at how many days he still had apart from him.

Arthur had changed him in so many ways, and the life he'd had before felt impossible now- carefree and careless of how much power was at his fingertips, of how much someone could hurt and strengthen you simply by existing. He had read a line of poetry downtown while hunting for a quote to tell Arthur, and it came back to him again. He wanted people to know that Arthur had lived and breathed in the same world with him. _I love you, love you_ , he thought again, and took the calendar down.

He spent too much time in his rooms now, or out at the bar he'd first met Arthur at, drinking Tennents. He only felt better around Matthew, but his friend seemed to have gotten into even worse trouble while he was out dealing with his trial.

He came stumbling up to his rooms covered in blood one night, and Alfred caught him before he could collapse. Matthew was babbling something he couldn't understand about the Red Army kids, brows furrowed, eye swelled shut. Alfred could hear the whispering in the hall where he'd come from, but he didn't want to know how he'd gotten his wounds. Matthew was his, too, his friend. Alfred wanted to do at least one thing heroic for someone. Save someone, even if it wasn't Arthur.

He settled him on his couch and cleaned him up as best he could. There was an odd haunted quality to his eyes, a hollow despair to his words, and Alfred wished he was awake and his usual self.

A few hours in, he heard the knocking across the hall and opened the door. A man stood there, eyes wide and full of a love and pain so poignant that Alfred's throat felt thick. He could see himself reflected there, his love for Arthur.

'Alfred?' the man asked, hands clutching at the hem of his shirt. It was strange to think other people knew of him, but only that he was a pilot and of his trial, and not of Arthur and him and stargazing and love. His dog tags felt cold against his chest.

'That's me. I guess you've heard, huh?' He tried to smile. 'Are you looking for Mattie?'

He nodded, more than half broken. Alfred let him in.

'He's here. He's in rough shape. Be gentle with him.' He looked the man up and down, noting the pain and devotion in his eyes, and thought he knew who he was. 'I know you will.'

'Why do you know?'

Alfred smiled, for his own hope and memory. 'Mattie told me about someone who was everything for him. A long time ago, it feels. The way…' He swallowed, the pain returning sharp and suffocating. It still didn't feel real that Arthur could simply be gone. 'The way Artie is for me.' He shook it away for now and turned his smile to him. 'Is your name Francis?'

He looked wrecked and rebuilt by his love, and the way he leaned towards Matthew was reverent.

'It is.'

Alfred left them alone. He knew Matthew would be in the best hands for him. He waited until they left to slip back down to the Cuckoo's Egg bar. His head hurt again.

He was drinking and waiting and _wanting_ like always when Ludwig walked across the bar to him, eyes sharp and hard as steel. He sat down across the table from Alfred, and it woke him up in a way he hadn't been since Arthur was gone. Before he could even ask why he was here, Ludwig ordered him to follow him.

'What's this about?' he asked after they stopped in a side street. Ludwig looked...destroyed, and terribly alive at the same time, burning with a fearsome energy barely under control.

'I need your help.'

Of all the people to ever say that to him, Alfred had never expected Ludwig to be one of them. He had a sinking feeling about what it was going to be.

'Listen,' he interrupted, already tired. 'I don't...I don't want to keep reminding myself of what happened. I remember it too often.'

The officer raised an eyebrow, lip curling slightly. 'You'll be rid of me soon. I need to get past the checkpoint.'

For a heartbeat, he could hear himself convincing Arthur into that, and pushed it away. Part of him wanted to rush into this mad plan, but he didn't dare. Not anymore.

'I can't do it. I can't make any more trouble or it'll be my trial next.'

'You _owe_ me, Jones,' Ludwig snarled, poisonous with pain, and Alfred bared his teeth right back, his fierce hurt and loss bleeding out.

'I don't owe you anything. You expect me to be grateful for- for framing Arthur? For sending him away again? For ruining the best thing I've ever known?' The words spilled out in jagged gasps, every word shoving his empty future deeper.

Ludwig's perfect facade broke for half a breath when he said, 'It's for Feliciano.'

For Feliciano. Alfred could have laughed, laughed because this perfect machine of a soldier knew where they connected, knew that love was his breaking point. He and Ludwig were one and the same and not helping him would have felt like betrayal.

'What do you need me to do?' Alfred asked, all his anger gone. The officer's shoulders slackened, just barely. He told him his address and when to arrive so they could talk more, in private. Alfred watched him leave, posture straight and flawless before he turned around.

'Thank you, Alfred,' Ludwig said. He could hear the love for his artist there. Alfred understood. He understood everything.

'I may as well help some people,' he said. The wind whistled through the buildings of Berlin and Alfred could see the paint stains on Ludwig's gloves, so faint he wouldn't have seen unless he had known they were there. The city breathed, and something finally loosened enough in his chest so he could as well. His eyes stung, and he opened them wider, drinking up the blue of the sky, wondering if Arthur was looking at it as well, if he would look at the stars and remember him, five hundred miles away. 'You know, I could never destroy this city, no matter what they ordered. It's got an art to it that you fall in love with.'

'That it does,' Ludwig said.

 **0o0o0o**

 ** _:: Wondering if you should be more familiar with people simply because the stars outnumber us by millions_**


	11. Chapter 11

It was terrifying and wonderful to know that people like him and Arthur existed, people like Ludwig who seemed so sure and _proud_ of his love. Alfred wished he could be like that, but all he had was a promise to meet again and the photograph over his heart.

Ludwig's officer's quarters were sparse and grey. The only point of life was the faint smudges of gold and blue on Ludwig's gloves. Alfred sat down.

'What happened to your artist, your- Feliciano?' he tentatively asked. Pain flashed across his face for a moment.

'The East has him.'

Alfred felt sick. That was impossible. West Berlin was _safe_ , the East couldn't possibly get in. They wouldn't dare. Ludwig held up a hand when he tried to shout so. 'I don't know why. I do know how to save him.'

'What's your plan?' Alfred's head was still spinning.

Ludwig passed him a photograph. 'What do you know about prisoner exchanges?'

'I don't know much, I've only seen one. Spy for spy.' Alfred stopped, horrified. 'Hold on, you can't be-'

'Pay _attention_ ,' Ludwig roared at him, lips peeling back from his teeth, hand slamming against the table. His eyes were utterly piercing. Every inch of him was a soldier, built of sheer devotion. 'You are a lieutenant. You're authorized to exchange prisoners. Feliciano Vargas is a West Berliner, so you can convince them to let him go.'

'Ludwig,' he said, pleading, trying to find any respite in his eyes. 'I can't do this.'

He couldn't offer another person up to pay for love. He'd left Arthur to the mercy of their courts, offered him up, but he couldn't do it again. He wouldn't.

Ludwig laughed coldly, glancing over him.

'You can and you will. God help me, Jones, if you turn cowardly, I'll be handing you over the Stasi instead of me. An American bomber pilot is someone they would be glad to have.'

Alfred _understood_ , he did, understood his love. But he couldn't let this happen again.

'I'm not doing this. I mean- you risk everything to even get into the East, are you mad?'

For a second, he heard Arthur asking him that same question, green eyes bright with bourbon, loose and sharp-tongued and amazing. He pushed it away.

Ludwig rose from his chair, jaw set, unforgiving as steel. A perfect soldier, always.

'Everything I have done since the day we met has been for him. Do you hear me? For as long as I am able, I will do everything in my life for _him_.'

Alfred touched his pocket, the photograph there, heart aching so much. He saw himself in Ludwig, in this fierce love, hopeful in the way things only were at the end of the world.

'He's worth everything.' He swallowed back tears. He missed Arthur so much. He wished he had been the one to take the punishment. He wished everything was different. 'Arthur is like that to me. He's everything.'

Ludwig tipped his head, his composure flickering in empathy. 'Do we have an agreement, Jones?'

Alfred nodded, sealing his fate, feeling sick and wrong and never less like a hero. Ludwig settled back at the table.

'Ludwig, how do you know this is going to work?' He could barely get the words out. This wasn't what he wanted, none of this was right. 'You're an officer, not a Soviet spy. They'll never buy it.'

'Of course they won't believe it. They won't want me because they think I'm a spy.' He grinned, suddenly harsher and full of teeth and power. 'They'll want me because I am Gilbert Beilschmidt's baby brother.'

His stomach twisted. The name and that incongruously soft endearment was _spat_ with a hatred and satisfaction that made his head hurt even thinking of what had happened between them.

'Tomorrow,' Ludwig ordered. 'I will meet you outside your base.'

Alfred nodded and stumbled away to forget about everything, downing beer in some filthy backstreet dive and staring at a man across the table with green eyes. Ludwig was willing to give _everything_ of himself for Feliciano, and Alfred was _letting_ him. He didn't know what to do. Berlin was too empty and echoing without Arthur and he was alone.

Alfred waited outside his base in the early morning, staring up to the sun until Ludwig found him, handing him a set of papers. He gripped them, wondering if they were like Arthur's files, empty of anything with real meaning.

'I'm glad to see you, Jones.' Alfred couldn't even manage a proper response. Ludwig looked perfectly calm, almost amused, walking to his death with his head held high. Proud of how he could save his artist. Alfred barely listened to the rest of his instructions. He was staring at a dead man walking.

'Gilbert,' he echoed, catching that hateful name again. 'He's why this will work?'

'Yes, I suppose. What they wouldn't give for me. The only thing that will really hurt Gilbert anymore. And you'll be giving me to them, all without a fight.' Ludwig tilted his head, maddeningly casual. Alfred wanted to shake him and scream, scream that this whole world was wrong.

'Doesn't that scare you?' he asked instead, voice dull.

'Either Gilbert will behave or he won't. Either way, they will probably shoot me in front of him.' Ludwig turned to the sun, chin raising. 'I should have shot him when I had the chance.'

'When was that?'

Ludwig laughed. 'The night he threw me out.'

The perfect officer had his breaks, his story. Alfred's words spilled out, far too conscious that this would be the last time he would ever see this man. Their stories both started and ended in Berlin.

'You're devoted to Feliciano. I...I guess I understand that. Understand you.' They were joined by their devotion.

'He is everything to me.' Ludwig's voice barely softened, his eyes slipping closed.

'I understand.' Alfred choked back tears. 'I just wish it wasn't like this, this war.' This war that only hurt the people in the streets, the artists and fighters and lovers, the innocent lives that would be the truest carnage of the war on the horizon.

'It'll all be better one day,' Ludwig said softly. 'We'll have a better world. Feliciano...Feliciano promised me that.'

That was all they could do, wasn't it? Promise a better world and fight to get there.

The walk to the checkpoint was silent. Alfred noticed Ludwig gazing around, taking in the last moments. He walked him to his death.

 _You are now leaving the American sector_ , the sign declared. It felt a lifetime ago that he'd convinced Arthur to take him to the Gate, a thousand years since everything was so bright and beautiful and nothing could ever go wrong as long as Arthur kept smiling at him.

Just outside the checkpoint, Ludwig stopped.

'Jones,' he said, and then corrected himself. 'Alfred. I want you to give something to Feliciano. Please.'

His voice nearly broke on that word, and Alfred could only give him silent comfort and accept what he was given. All they knew was a soldier's goodbye across whatever battlefield they were given. It was a battered book of poetry, small and innocent, a record of better times. Something changed in Ludwig's eyes as Alfred tucked it next to his photograph. He looked free, like he was finally ready to leave everything behind.

If Alfred looked down, he thought he'd see the blood on his hands.

'I'll make sure he's safe,' he promised, a helpless attempt to make any of this better. 'Feliciano. I promise. As long as I can.'

Ludwig dipped his head, the powerful lines of his shoulders slackening with relief. Alfred felt even worse.

He was only aware of the man beside him as they crossed the checkpoint into the East, through the streets to the prison. This was all his fault, Alfred thought, sick at himself. When the prison door shut behind them, Ludwig closed his eyes and breathed, so sure of himself and his devotion.

The guard was pale and ragged, stance crooked as he led them down the hall.

'Leave him in there with the other. I have to go get the second prisoner. Come with me,' he ordered Alfred. He moved to protest, but Ludwig subtly shook his head, his shoulders suddenly stiff.

Alfred stumbled along behind the guard to the west wing, and slumped against the wall when he told him to wait.

He had wanted to be a hero. He wanted Arthur, and safety, and a better future for love like theirs, and here he was, signing a good man's death sentence, alone in Berlin.

Berlin. It all came down to that, didn't it? How the lights in the bars here made Arthur's eyes sparkle, how the stars looked when there was soft breath against his neck, and the terror and beauty of the art and war, always war. War cities reduced people to their cores, their devotion and love and fear of the future, took away everything but the purest art that made people human and here Alfred was, trying to put everything of this shattered city and so many shattered lives back together.

The guard returned with a prisoner, a ragged wreck of a man with shockingly beautiful features. There was an aristocratic air to him, even dressed in prison rags. He barely looked at Alfred, only shoved the door open again and led them back to Ludwig.

When the guard unlocked the door, Alfred saw Ludwig and Feliciano, pure devotion and art, their love so obvious, so sure and impossibly gentle between them.

'Vargas,' Alfred said, and Feliciano stumbled forward. He saw the flicker of peace on Ludwig's face before the door closed. He knew it would be the last time he would ever see him.

The aristocrat and Feliciano followed him out, into the sun and blue sky. Nothing had changed, even though it should. Something should have _happened_ to show that Alfred had handed a man over to the Stasi to be killed, traded lives like playing cards. He wasn't anything like a hero.

They crossed back to the West. The aristocrat was holding Feliciano up, trying to soothe his sobs. Alfred slowed to a stop, tearing apart inside.

'Vargas,' he said, and caught himself, voice breaking. 'Feliciano.'

Feliciano didn't seem to be able to bear looking at him. Alfred didn't blame him for any of it. Feliciano should hate him. This was his fault, all of this.

He fumbled to hand him the poetry book. Feliciano accepted it, hands trembling. He looked starved, and wrecked, and Alfred could only think about what would happen to Ludwig because of him.

'I'm sorry,' he said, but it wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough to apologize for _this_. Sorry was used too often on the tiniest cuts and bruises, and now Alfred didn't know any other way to apologize. 'I'm so sorry, Feliciano.'

It was hopeless. Feliciano was a wreck in every way. Losing Ludwig had broken something in him.

Alfred backed up, stumbling over his own feet, sickened, and ran.

0o0o0o

Alfred stared up at the stars, the car crackling beneath his back. He'd never felt colder, even though it was a warm night and the engine was still hot. All he could think of was the look in Feliciano's eyes, the knowledge that he'd lost Ludwig forever.

This was all his fault. He wanted Arthur with him, but he didn't know if he deserved him.

He rolled over onto his side, pressing his cheek to the hot metal and the chilled glass of his latest bottle, tacky with tears. He gazed at Arthur's photo and the velvet-soft page of poetry, and then with a shuddering groan, pulled out paper to write, spilling out all his tangled thoughts and his horrible choking guilt and all the thousand places that the world and him were wrong. He missed Arthur. He felt like there was blood all over his hands, dripping down the bomb-scarred bricks of this war city. If leading one man to his death- a man who'd commanded his own end, who'd given of himself willingly- had done this to him, he could barely imagine the nuclear bombs. His throat hurt. After he was gone, would there be someone else in the cockpit who would pull the trigger?

He finished his letter and stared up at the sky, dreaming himself into the last moments of the bomb where the whole world would be endlessly bright, like lightning strikes in a thunderstorm. Like the world would have lit up around Arthur, if he loved war instead of art.

0o0o0o

Arthur could still hear the voice of the man at last job who had rejected him. _We don't take people like you_. It was good, he thought sardonically, relishing the burn of alcohol, good that his so desperately-needed military job had at least paid well for the time he was there.

He poured himself another shot of bourbon, but it wasn't the same, not when it wasn't kissed off Alfred's lips, when it wasn't surrounded by Berlin. He'd fallen in love with that city, too. The light danced through the amber bottle. Arthur felt heavy and completely empty. There were still months to go before August eighteenth.

When the door of his little flat opened, he didn't bother looking up. He was too drained to even wonder who it was. Maybe someone who'd heard about his disgraced return, or someone who'd seen the details of why they'd thrown him out. For love, always for love.

Instead, his brothers sat down at the table across from him and poured themselves drinks. Arthur sat up, disoriented, head and heart aching.

'What are you two doing here?' he slurred. He hadn't seen them in years.

'We heard you were back early,' Allistor said shortly. Arthur took the bottle and threw back another shot, _not enough, not enough_.

'Did you hear why?' he challenged.

His brother glanced at Sean. 'We had an idea of it.'

'Of course,' Arthur muttered. His brothers had known for a long time. He shoved the bourbon away. Nothing was enough, nothing was Alfred in this suffocating place, wide open and free and full of sunshine like he was.

'Did you fight when they put you on trial?' Sean asked. 'You lost, I know, rigged system and all. But did you fight?'

'Not for myself.' Arthur leaned back, noticing for the first time that the room was full of fumes and how sick he felt of everything except that moment of bravery, true bravery, where he'd been a hero. 'It was him or me. And I chose to save him.'

Quiet, in the half-sunlit room, before his brothers rose. Arthur wondered if there was a shade of respect in their eyes.

'You did a good thing,' Sean said. 'I know a few people, jobs that won't check your records.'

Then they were gone, leaving only the quiet. Arthur closed his eyes and dreamed of a different place, a smoky Berlin bar and bright blue eyes and an American accent. His darling, infuriating, beautiful American.

 **0o0o0o**

 _ **:: Deep ice water that's clearest blue all the way down**_


	12. Chapter 12

Alfred stayed out later. He didn't want to go back to the hulking industrial complexes of the military barracks. He didn't want to be in this job and place where there was so much fearful, horrible power in his hands. He wanted to be safe, and he wanted to be with Arthur, and he wanted to stop being scared of a war, stop being scared that he would be the one to fire the first deadly shot. How many steps was it from trading lives like bargaining chips to trading entire cities?

Matthew came to wake him up in the barracks one night when he swore he'd last been out on the Ku'damm. Arthur's photo was still clutched in his hand, the only tie to the hazy world.

'Hey, Alfie.' He looked lighter, happier, even through his worry, and Alfred tried to smile for him, croak out _you're looking good, Mattie!_ , but his tongue was thick with lethargy that terrified him. He couldn't stop thinking of Feliciano, and of Ludwig, left in the East...

'Hey,' he managed to say, world swimming slowly before his eyes. He tried to wrestle himself back on course, but all of this was a hurricane inside his head. 'You're looking better.'

'I am better. What's up?'

'Nothing,' Alfred lied right through his teeth. _I don't want to start a war and I miss Arthur and I am scared, so scared of everything, I don't feel like a hero at all_. Matthew glanced down at the photograph.

'Arthur,' he murmured.

Alfred slumped with a faint, lost chuckle, relieved in a way that he didn't have to hide it anymore. He wasn't even sure if he could. 'That's him. My Arthur.'

His friend settled in beside him, and Alfred hauled himself up to make room.

'They're sending me home. Wish it was you instead,' Matthew said bitterly.

That almost made him laugh, thinking of the calendar he'd thrown away again. 'Yeah. I've got a bit longer.'

They'd sat like this before everything, on Matthew's old ragged leather couch, curled close to each other.

'I want you to know that I appreciate you,' Matthew said suddenly. 'I know we've had a… _lot_ of differences,' he conceded with a grimace, 'but you're my friend.'

Alfred grabbed him for an embrace, eyes stinging, throat thick.

'Thanks, Mattie,' he said. 'I appreciate you too. Really.'

'I know.' Matthew gently shoved him off and pointed a finger in his face. 'You know my work address. Write if you get into any more trouble.'

'I need a favour. I can't write to Arthur directly, I'm not risking us like that. Can you forward him my letters?' He showed him the address.

'You're asking me to pay your cross-Atlantic postage?' Matthew's eyes sparkled, both of them so comfortable in this teasing banter they'd always had, even before this hell. He affectionately nudged him and wrote down the address. 'No, I'm kidding, you know that. I'll do it but you're buying all my drinks for a month once you get out, understand?'

Alfred nodded mutely, oily thick guilt crawling up his throat at how he was still here, still alive and safe in the West, laughing and _protected_. Matthew peered at him in concern.

'Anything else you want to tell me? I promise that I'll keep a good secret once I'm five thousand kilometres away.'

Alfred stared at his hands. 'You don't know them, but there's…' They were just _people_ , people like them, whose only crimes were love in a war city. 'Their names are Ludwig and Feliciano.'

'Feliciano Vargas? The artist?' Matthew asked, mouth twisted.

Alfred blinked. 'Yes. You know him?'

He hesitated. 'Francis does. What's going on with them?'

The ugly words stuck on his tongue for a moment, full of guilt and shame, _this is all your fault_. Finally, he choked them out. 'Feliciano was taken by the Stasi.'

Matthew's eyes were wide and fearful. 'What? That can't- he was from the West!'

'Do you think they cared?' Alfred asked bitterly. 'Ludwig came to me about it. He'd do anything, _anything_ to save him. And I...agreed.' He'd caused this, it was his fault.

'It wasn't your fault, whatever happened.'

'Yes, it was!' Alfred wrenched himself up, the words spilling out in ragged gasps. 'If I hadn't agreed, Ludwig wouldn't have been able to do what he did. If it wasn't for _me_ , he wouldn't have handed himself over to the East for Feliciano. I don't know why I did it.' He felt empty, useless, _wrong_ in so many ways. 'You didn't see the way Feliciano looked when I saved...when we left.'

'Ludwig gave himself to the East for him?' Matthew was pale.

'It was a prisoner exchange for his…his Feliciano. The way he talked about him was-' Alfred shut his eyes, heart aching, choking on a rattling breath. 'Arthur. He reminded me of Arthur and what he did for me. Sacrifice for love. I hate it. I hate it so _much!'_

'I understand,' he heard Matthew say, faintly.

'I don't want there to be any more of it,' Alfred insisted, but suddenly his fury was gone, leaving him empty and drained. 'That's not what love is.'

'Is he still there?'

Still trapped in that concrete and stell, still at the mercy of the Stasi. Alfred nodded. 'I was supposed to be the hero.'

'You saved Feliciano.'

'That wasn't _saving_ him,' Alfred immediately returned. He took a deep breath, hiding all his pain away. He was good at it. He would hurt later, but not now, not while there was one more person to be a hero for. 'It's fine, it's already done. I shouldn't have told you all of that right before you left. Should be a celebration, huh?'

'Alfred.' Matthew's eyes shone wet.

'Come on. I know a good place. It's called the Cuckoo's Egg.' Alfred gave his best smile and led him outside to the bright sun, drinking in the city.

They settled in with drinks, and the memory of this place, the night he had met Arthur, made Alfred smile a little. The beer reminded him of those wonderful hours.

'I'm really gonna miss you. You're the only other person here who understands. I've still got a year in this job, threatening innocent people- God, it sickens me. Wish I could openly be a pacifist like you, but they'd ruin my record and call me a Soviet sympathizer.' He frowned. 'And I am _not_ a Soviet sympathizer.'

'You're not a pacifist either,' Matthew murmured.

'I'm _reasonable_ with aggression,' Alfred reminded him, and Matthew looked suddenly interested in his drink.

They drank and toasted to a future away from the hell of the military, _some day after this is all at peace_.

'Last day in Berlin,' Alfred announced, feeling _alive_ for a sudden moment, like he could begin to fix everything that had gone wrong. 'Come on, let's enjoy it. And take off your uniform jacket, I don't want to be a soldier for a second more than I have to.'

Matthew followed him into the dark bright dark streets, touching fingertips to keep from losing each other to the hazes and the music of the stars above. _Are you looking at the stars right now, Artie?_ , Alfred wondered, stretching his arms up and catching himself with a conveniently placed lamppost. He wanted to give Arthur all of this, the gilt and gold and glitter of these streets, and the stars in their dizzying constellations overhead. He wanted to give him everything.

'I've been lookin' for poetry,' he suddenly remembered, trying to follow the proceeds of the stars overhead. He was interrupted by the post he'd grabbed onto, which tilted alarmingly. 'Oh, God, Mattie, is that gonna fall on me?'

'It'll be fine,' he friend insisted, his accent thick with drink. 'Come sit down.'

'I'm not tired,' Alfred insisted.

'You're never tired.'

'It's 'cause I'm a hero.' Alfred could feel Matthew against him from where they were both on the bench, but he didn't mind. He stretched up towards the stars. He hadn't been this alive since Arthur was gone.

'Why are you looking for poetry?'

Alfred smiled up at Orion. 'Because Arthur said he used to have a book of it. Annotated all of Keats' poems and everythin', but he sold it. Or maybe I can buy him music.' And they could dance, and Alfred would sing until Arthur laughed.

'Francis likes music,' Matthew agreed sleepily.

'Music is real important. I wanna get good music for when I go stargazing again.' He drank in the stars, awed, longing for Arthur to be in his arms. 'They're better in the countryside. Mattie, can you believe Artie's never been to the countryside? I'm gonna take him there one day, and everything is gonna be okay once I can do that.'

He felt Matthew slowly stroke his hair as he talked, the heavens blurring with happy, hopeful tears.

'Everythin's gonna be okay. I'll be with Artie soon, and then I can fix this whole war, I'll be the _hero_ ,' he promised himself and the stars and his friend, he promised to this whole city, to the war, heart fluttering to the beat of a song. 'Mattie! I know what I'm gonna do after I'm out, 'cause I'm never coming back to this job. 'M gonna be an _astronaut!_ And Artie's gonna be a writer so he can write all about me going to space, and we'll be happy and safe and everything, _everything_ will be okay.'

He felt himself drifting, safe and hopeful, with Matthew staring up at the moon with a smile and tears on his cheeks.

When he woke up, back in the barracks, he knew Matthew was gone- sent back home, away from ground zero. Safe. Alfred smiled at the ceiling, eyes wet, before he turned over to hold his pillow tighter in loneliness.

0o0o0o

Arthur had a job in a bookshop. One his sister had agreed to give him, tucked away in London, a job where he could imagine like Berlin and Alfred had all been a beautiful, sugar-high dream, lying on car hoods and stargazing and whispering love and poetry. It felt like a dream while he was in London, pretending there was no war on the horizon, that there wasn't a city full of life and gunpowder blood and brilliant American pilots, all ready to ignite. What was Berlin if not a firecracker alliance? What was Arthur if not a man woven through with the lights and colour of that city, summer blue eyes and robin's egg paint on an old sunny car, standing here in the rain and straining to listen for a heartbeat five hundred miles away?

This job was good. Better than the hell of the military. The books rarely demanded that he watch a city of innocents go up in flames.

It was quiet. When people arrived, they didn't do it like a firework, dragging him along on mad adventures, singing _it's time to live, Arthur, now or never!_ \- and he _missed_ it, he missed the brash wild energy of those nights, he missed Alfred like all the stars had been pulled out of the velvet dark and left only the cold moon. It would only be until August, but it was too long.

He stayed in the shop, devoting himself to fixing it up, trying to make something of this life after better. It was quiet, and normal, and there was no brash, wild Americans walking in and changing everything. He wished there was.

One rainy day the bell over the door jingled and Arthur automatically began his greeting, glancing up to see-

Broad shoulders and sunkissed skin and glasses, gawky as a young bird still growing into his wings, but full of assurance nonetheless. Tears stung his eyes and he lunged forward, barely daring to believe, expecting summer blue eyes and an American accent declaring I promised I'd steal my bomber if I had to!

But this man's eyes were a strange soft violet and his hair curled too much, even wet by rain, and he held himself differently. As soon as he saw Arthur his shoulders curled in.

'Arthur?' he asked, sounding shocked. Arthur stopped, hurting worse for some reason.

'You look like him. I didn't think,' Arthur heard himself say. He did, enough to ache where the parts were different, enough to drive home the nail in his coffin, Alfred is not here. This was the friend he'd mentioned, Matthew.

He swallowed back the weight of months and forced a lighthearted voice, turning away so Matthew didn't see the way he knew he looked, wide-eyed and breaking.

'Did they throw you out too? I thought I would have been a good enough example of what not to do.' He glanced at him again.

'You didn't do anything wrong.' His voice was soft and liquid deep with compassion and pain, and it broke Arthur a little further.

'I love an American,' Arthur said, eyes stinging, breath catching. Somehow, he knew he was smiling just like that ridiculous beaming grin that Alfred had always flashed at him. 'A brilliant, wonderful American, and he taught me how to love things so much that you'd take anything for them. It wasn't his fault.' None of it had been Alfred's fault. Their love was not a bad thing. He gazed over at Matthew again. 'So did they find you out as well?'

'I'm damaged goods to them. A pacifist.'

'Well, that's nearly as bad,' Arthur said dryly, but he couldn't help the admiration in his voice. 'You did well.'

Matthew offered a small smile. 'Can I stay here for a while? I'm supposed to fly back home soon.'

Arthur let him in and went to make tea. 'What were you looking for?'

'A poetry book. Alfred wanted one. Actually, it was so he could send it to you, but I guess I could cut out the extra shipping costs and hand it over to you now.'

Arthur's hands shook, thinking of Alfred's bright smile and brighter dreams. 'He's such an idiot.'

'He wants to become an astronaut after he gets out of this. I wish he'd been one all along.' He gazed into his cup, smiling slightly.

'He deserves better,' Arthur whispered.

Williams looked around the shop. 'Is this where you worked before all of it? I'm going back to teaching after this. They didn't expect me back so soon, but…'

'No. Even if it was, it wouldn't have taken me back.' He swallowed back the bite of bitter fear. 'My older sister runs a few shops, she let me work in this one.' He laughed dryly. 'My record is rather incriminating.'

'I have someone too,' he enthused, suddenly glowing. 'He helped me realize that job was...it was killing me.'

'I'm glad you two didn't end up like us.'

Matthew sighed, looking blissful, and rummaged in his pockets, coming up with a small bottle of syrup. He looked at it happily for a moment, and then poured it into his tea.

Arthur couldn't help his immediate reaction of revulsion. Matthew looked up in surprise and held the offending bottle out towards him.

'Sorry, I should have offered. Do you want any? It's not the best, but at least it's not butter flavoured.'

'No thank you,' Arthur managed to say, trying not to look at the defiled tea. 'The man you're with. Is he still there?'

'He's not military. He's the artist type, actually.'

'If he's not military in Berlin, he must be the other kind,' Arthur agreed. 'What's his name?'

Matthew beamed. 'He's Francis Bonnefoy, the poet.'

For the second time, Arthur couldn't help his reaction. ' _Francis?'_

'You know him?'

Arthur groaned. 'Unfortunately. He's who I lost that damn bet to and had to sell that poetry book for. Alfred mentioned you didn't have the best taste, but…'

'Alfred only said that because I put a little bit of syrup on his burger once,' Matthew exclaimed. Arthur decided not to comment. 'I heard you used to drink together.'

'We did. Different times. He was an arrogant bastard, but I suppose he was a very solid partner.' It was good that Francis had found someone too, and this man seemed exactly his type, suited to his artistic taste. 'Are you...happy with him?'

'I am,' he said, and his shoulders straightened again, looking as bright and confident as Alfred.

Arthur smiled. 'Well, I wish you the best.'

When Matthew left, Arthur pressed the book of Apollinaire's poems him, waving off his protests. 'I don't want a book of French poetry anyways,' he soothed, and Matthew looked delighted.

'In my opinion, you're one of the better soldiers this whole thing has made,' Arthur added, fixing his uniform, choking back the ache of familiarity. 'I'm glad you're somewhat better off now. Alfred said you were- it's Canadian, isn't it? I've heard it's beautiful there.'

He looked peaceful, dreaming of home. 'It is. When Alfred is out, we'll see each other again,' he suggested. 'The stars are unbelievable up there. I've got a cabin Alfred borrows from me every year, if you're ever interested.'

Arthur let himself think of the future, some place safe and away with Alfred.

'Once this whole damn thing is done,' he whispered.

Matthew left, and Arthur sat back with the cooling tea and dreamed of a home found in delirious burning blue eyes and a sunlit smile; _now or never!_


	13. Chapter 13

Alfred dreamed of Arthur. He dreamed of their night on the couch, sharing bourbon and kisses and breaking in a thousand ways for each other. Life had felt impossible at that moment, when he was so unsure of himself and his wild love, but he'd give the world for that. He'd take on the West if it meant _freedom_ , if it meant he and Arthur and everyone else never had to fear their own love again. Sometimes he thought he would have to, that it was only a matter of years.

When he woke up, he could only stare at his too-empty bed, the cold space in his arms where Arthur should have been. He couldn't meet his own eyes in the mirror, only touch the spot beneath his jaw where Arthur had liked to kiss. The bruises there were long faded, so why hadn't the aching dulled under the heavy water-weight of his pain? It had been long enough that the first frosts dusted the ground, but the raw wound inside was still scraped open by every day as a soldier of the nuclear wars. Some days, he felt so sick with guilt that he couldn't bring himself to try to finish his letter to Arthur.

The only times his head was a little quieter was sitting in the silver cockpit of his plane. It had been too long since the only things he needed were the high atmosphere and the controls of his plane. He'd _believed_ , back then, everything the army fed him, and never questioned the power of the weapons under his hands. He knew better now.

He'd asked around for Feliciano but the address he got was empty. Either fake or vacated, and Alfred didn't blame either. Still, he found himself wandering there on the few days he forced himself away from the bars, so, so guilty over how far he was falling and how sick and helpless he felt. Feliciano was just one more person he couldn't save.

One day, there was someone else standing there, coat tucked around them. Something about the way their shoulders curled and the tilt of their head sparked some blurry memory in the drink haze.

'Francis?' he asked hesitantly.

Francis turned immediately, his fine features suddenly set into a harsh mask, body hard and tense. His expression softened immediately, the wary instinct melting away like the frosts on the grass, but it still startled him.

'Alfred? What's wrong?' His hand dropped.

'Nothing,' Alfred said automatically. His tongue was thick with sleep and nightmares- _God, his nightmares_. So many times reliving that trial, all his mistakes, his love and his own stupidity, _so many mistakes_. He could hear his breathing speed up, rough and wild. 'No. No, everything is wrong, I feel like I've done everything wrong. First Arthur, now Ludwig-' Their faces blurred through his head, voice building to a scream thinking of the nuclear bomb. How much blood would this war leave on his hands? How many names and faces and lives would be obliterated by him? 'People keep dying and _it's always my fault!_ '

'Alfred!' The voice broke through. He gazed helplessly up at the man and his soft words. 'This wasn't your fault.'

'Was it? If I wasn't here, in this hell of a job, two people wouldn't be in prison or five hundred miles away.' If he wasn't here, Berlin would be sleeping dead.

'Ludwig?' he asked urgently. 'He's in prison?'

Francis knew Ludwig? It made Alfred laugh a little. Small world. 'Yeah. He is.' He glanced downtown, the itch to soothe his hurts already building in his bones. 'Come on. I need another drink. I'll tell you there.'

Alfred ordered his new usual. He stared dispassionately at the art on the can, and drank.

'What do you know about prisoner exchanges?' he heard himself say, echoing a man braver and surer than him. He wondered if Ludwig had been shot yet.

'Who did you-' Francis stopped. Alfred couldn't look at him. The guilt hung heavy. 'Feliciano,' he whispered. 'Oh, God, it was Feliciano.'

'I wish- I wish I'd never helped with that plan of his. But I couldn't not help, Francis. You get it, don't you?' He knew how desperate and scared and lonely he sounded. His eyes stung. 'He's like me. He's like _us_. If it was Arthur there, God, I'd be lined up outside Checkpoint Charlie with handcuffs on the second I knew. I can't blame him.'

'I get it.'

Alfred couldn't stomach the disgust at himself. He motioned for another can, and Francis placed a hand on his arm. There was quiet grief in his eyes, like he'd seen this too many times. Alfred swallowed and put down his hand.

'You get it,' he echoed, and let Francis lead him outside. The early winter air was good, shocking him awake. The stars seemed liquid in the sky, and he traced the image of Arthur's laugh in the silver.

'That's Orion up there. You know, I wanted to send Artie a book on constellations.' He swallowed back tears and smiled brighter to the future, someday after this whole damn thing was done. 'Can you believe he's never been to the countryside?'

In the nearby garden, he finally finished the letter. He had a spark of hope still, and that was enough. Francis sat nearby, watching the stars.

'Where is Feliciano now?'

'He's in the West again. I don't know where.'

Francis shifted. 'And Ludwig?'

'Ludwig is in prison,' Alfred said as shortly as he could, biting back all his furious guilty mistakes.

He posted the letter to Canada and followed Francis along the streets to his base, drinking in the constellations.

'If you need something to do, come to my art studio,' Francis said when they stopped outside the barracks. In the moonlight, he looked more peaceful, more sad, weighted by loss that ran deeper than this city.

'The place with the Thunderbird? Yeah, I know it.' Alfred resolved to visit. He thought they both needed a distraction some days, and he could find something to tease Matthew about. He smiled. 'Hey, Francis. Thanks a lot. I'm glad Mattie has someone like you.'

'I tried my best for him. He deserves it.' His eyes fluttered. 'He deserves everything.'

'Yeah, you get it,' Alfred whispered. He tucked his jacket around himself and walked back to his bloody duty.

0o0o0o

The letter arrived crumpled and with a drawing of Berlin and the occupied zones on the envelope. It had been re-mailed from Berlin to Canada.

It was ridiculous that such a small gesture had Arthur frozen in place, clutching the envelope. He knew without even opening it who it was from, and it was pure oxygen in his starving world.

He rushed back to the shop and sat in the steps out back for a long, long time, barely willing to open it. This connection to Alfred, and the infuriating, wonderful pilot himself was so, so precious to him, and he wanted to savour this moment of knowing that five hundred miles away, his brilliant American had sat writing to him, thinking of him, perhaps looking at the same stars. They didn't look so different in Berlin.

Finally, with shaking hands, the first winds of winter curling through his hair, he opened the letter.

 _Dear Artie,_

 _It's so alone here without you. That doesn't make sense, does it? Berlin's a whole city full of so many people but it's not the same. Nobody here is like you._

 _Mattie's gone now, too. He was happy to. I wish I could have gone, too. I'm asking him to mail this to you from Canada. I don't know when it'll get to you. Write back to me through him, okay?_

 _I thought this would be like talking to you but it's not the same when you're not holding my hand or giving me that smile (and I know you're doing it now, and it_ is _a smile) that says you love me and that my ideas are great even if you won't admit it. You are smiling, aren't you? Smile for me. I'll be back with you soon, and I'll show you the world properly._

 _I love you and I miss you and I wish I was anywhere but here. I fell in love with this city and with you and it's not the same when you're gone. Promise me you'll keep going and that you'll have some good stories to tell me when I'm out. I'll bring you poetry when I get there!_

 _Sincerely, your favorite American!_

 _Alfred Foster Jones_

Alfred clutched the paper, crinkling the soft edges, the pain bowing him over. He traced the messy pen strokes and imagined Alfred doing the same thing as he wrote to him, maybe smiling the same breaking, wondering smile to the blurry starlit skies of a city, writing his love across an ocean and back to try to connect to Arthur even as their worlds snarled and burned.

He carefully folded the letter again, following the imprecise creases, and slipped it into his shirt pocket over his heart. He stared up at the constellations, silent tears on his cheeks, not knowing if he was smiling or crying or both, rubbing his thumb across the dog tags around his neck and dreaming of sunshine.

0o0o0o

He was woken by the door one night, and was on his feet, gun in his hand before he thought. He was living like a hunted thing, loving like a hunted thing. The thought made him furious, and he deliberately set aside his gun again. He was _Alfred Fucking Jones_ , the Berlin brigade's ace. He'd get better publicity than being arrested in the middle of the night.

He opened the door, retort already on his lips, expecting the grey eyes of his commander, but being surprised by a young man, panting slightly.

'The telephone's on for you,' he said. 'Some artist. He asked for you by name.'

Alfred opened his mouth to protest, but his words failed him. He nodded mutely, shut the door to get his uniform trousers on, and followed the man downstairs. After the adrenaline shock wore off, he found himself yawning and fumbling to pick up the phone. The man drew back to give him privacy, looking concerned.

''S probably just some publicity thing,' Alfred yawned. 'American Air Force speaking?'

'Alfred,' Francis said hoarsely. 'Is that you?'

Alfred almost dropped the phone and glanced at the young man, working on papers again. He hesitated, aware that every word could be a liability. 'It's me. What do you need me for? Other people want to use the phone soon,' he lied. 'Military phone and all.'

Francis sounded falsely calm, but the undercurrent of urgency in his voice chilled Alfred to the core. 'I need you to come pick up that painting I did for you immediately. I need to put another project up.'

'Right.'

'Be here immediately after your drill,' Francis said, and hung up. Alfred was left clutching the phone. He wasn't remotely tired anymore.

'You done?' the young man at the desk asked, looking up blearily. 'These night shifts are brutal, I tell you.'

'Brutal,' Alfred agreed, set the phone back on the cradle, and stumbled back upstairs. He couldn't sleep again, but it was better than dreaming of the trial.

Later that day, Alfred tucked his jacket closer around himself as he walked downtown. It was just after noon, but the snows still stuck to the ground. In the last few weeks, winter had set its teeth.

When he arrived at the gallery, Francis motioned him inside silently. His eyes were dark in his face, mouth set into a harsh line. When Alfred sat at the table, he paced around the room.

'Swear that you will not repeat what I tell you to anyone,' he said abruptly.

'What is it?'

' _Promise,_ ' Francis demanded. In the sudden snarl of his voice, Alfred saw a shadow of Ludwig's pure power and the assuredness of his mission, never hesitating, just like the brutal sharpness of that guard in the prison, with the eyes like birds'.

'I promise,' he said again, surrendering himself to one more death. Francis sat down. He had gaunt cheekbones.

'There was a resistance in the East. There is, still. I was once part of it.'


End file.
